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CouvrightN 0 D Y. _ 

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COPtKJGUT DSlPdsrft 












































A DRAMA OF THE HILLS 

























. • • 




































■ 























/ 

A DRAMA of the HILLS 

BY / 

A. M. HASWELL 

Author of “A Daughter of the Ozarks ” 



THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
BOSTON 


I <T 




I 



Copyright. 1923 

Br THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY 




Printed in the United States of America 

THE JORDAN & MORE PRESS 
BOSTON, MASS. 


FEB 11 '24 

©CU777105 




TO 

EDWARD MARTIN SHEPARD 

IN TOKEN OP A 
LIFE-LONG FRIENDSHIP 



A DRAMA OF THE HILLS 
Ante Scriptum 

This story, like many of those I read in my youth, 
is “ founded on fact.” That is to say, the main 
incidents of the tale, the framework of the book, are 
matters of history; actual happenings in the Ozark 
region within the knowledge of the writer. Around 
these he has taken the story teller’s privilege of weav¬ 
ing a web of fiction. Some few of the characters are 
drawn from life; most of them however are wholly 
fictitious. But in every case, whether sketching from 
life, or drawing imaginary characters, he has endeav¬ 
ored faithfully to depict the real people of the Ozark 
hills as he has known them in an intimacy of half a 
century. Their innate manhood; their utter fearless¬ 
ness; their intense loyalty to their own; their fiery 
love of justice; their hospitality to the stranger, and 
their hatred of injustice and sham. 

If this story shall make these people better known 
to the world, the purpose of its writer will have been 
fulfilled. 


A. M. HASWELL 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The First Throw of the Shuttle 3 
II In Which a Voice is Heard . 14 

III Friends in Need ... 19 

IV The Enlistment of Jabez Barton 33 
V In Which Others are Added to 

Manning’s Helpers . . 47 

VI The Hand that Struck the Blow 56 
VII The Flight of Cain ... 67 

VIII The Verdict of Love . . 72 

IX Uncle Littleberry Has a Visitor 77 
X The Day of Trial ... 85 

XI A Verdict and a Revelation . 98 

XII In Which Love Laughs at Lock¬ 
smiths ..... 108 

XIII Uncle Littleberry Holds the 

Fort ..... 119 

XIV Mary Claims Her Right . . 130 

XV In Which a New Ally is Enlisted 138 

XVI Tom Leathers Joins in a Plot . 148 

XVII Into the Wilderness . . . 158 

XVIII A Bird in the Bush, but None in 

the Hand .... 166 

XIX The Refuge and the Flight . 177 

XX Mary Meets Someone She Fears 189 


Contents 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

XXI 

In Which Mr. Mallicoat 



“ Ketches On ” 

202 

XXII 

The Trap is Sprung . 

212 

XXIII 

Mr. Munroe Meets with a Sur¬ 



prise ..... 

223 

XXIV 

In Which Mary Takes a Captive 

239 

XXV 

In Which Jerry Boon Takes a 



Hand ..... 

255 

XXVI 

In Which Jerry Betrays a Pris¬ 



oner ..... 

265 

XXVII 

A Dash Through the Night 

273 

XXVIII 

The Old Jail Has a Prisoner 



Again ..... 

280 

XXIX 

The Colonel Hears Some More 



News ..... 

288 

XXX 

The Waltons Arrive and Hear 



a Speech ..... 

296 

XXXI 

In Which Mr. Fain Takes a Bath 

306 

XXXII 

Mary and the Sheriff Start for 



Home ..... 

311 

XXXIII 

Colonel Barton Carries the 



News ..... 

318 

XXXIV 

In Which Jerry Boon Meets 



with Adventures 

325 

XXXV 

In Which the Curtain Falls 

340 


A DRAMA OF THE HILLS 


A DRAMA OF THE HILLS 


CHAPTER I 

The First Throw of the Shuttle 

Wild winter ruled the Ozarks. Hill and valley, 
farm and woodland lay under a heavy blanket of snow. 
For nearly a week an icy wind had lashed the naked 
trees until they shrieked in the blast, and had swept 
the snow into huge drifts. But at last the gale had 
exhausted its fury; the gray clouds rolled away, and 
the sun came forth in all his splendor. 

Then was seen a miracle of the Ozark winter, for at 
the first touch of the light the rugged hills flashed 
forth into a veritable fairyland; every withered leaf, 
every blade of dead grass, every smallest twig upon 
the trees, was hung with icy diamonds which swung 
to the breeze and flashed and sparkled in the sunshine 
as if all the mines of Golconda had been robbed to 
furnish forth the wonderful sight. 

The hill farmers, who for long days had done little 
more than to care for their live stock, and keep the 
fires roaring in the great stone fire places, now hastened 
to take advantage of the change in the weather. 
Some rode horseback through the drifts to store, 


A Drama of the Hills 


Post Office, or blacksmith shop; some sought the 
more distant county-seat town, where they could get 
into touch with the outside world, talk local politics 
with the incumbents of the various county offices, or 
buy a St. Louis paper of their own brand of belief. 
Others, and these outnumbered all the rest, shoul¬ 
dered their axes and hastened to the hills to replenish 
their supplies of fuel, nearly exhausted during the 
long week of storm. Soon there rang from scores of 
points the sharp notes of the axes, playing that na¬ 
tional quickstep which, with a sub-bass of crashing 
trees has led the march of civilization across a conti¬ 
nent from gray Atlantic to blue Pacific. 

Norman Manning, teacher elect of the school of 
Restful district, sojourning under the hospitable roof 
of John Hampton, chairman of the school board, until 
the date of the beginning of the term, had risen that 
morning rejoiced to find that the storm had at last 
passed away. He aided the old farmer, as he had 
done all that stormy week, in caring for the cattle 
before daylight, and now, as he sat at breakfast he 
said to his host: “ Uncle John, your wood pile wouldn’t 
stand another such a week as the last. I mean to 
take an axe after breakfast, and go up on the ridge and 
see if I have forgotten how to cut cord wood.” 

“ Now then, Norman,” the old man said, “ I don’t 
rightly know how about the ‘ Perfesser of Restful 
deestrict’ a’cuttin’ cord wood fur me; Seems like ye 
better stay in the house and I’ll go git a load of 
wood.” 


The First Throw of the Shuttle 


5 


“ Pshaw, Uncle John,” was the answer, “ I am not 
‘ Professor ’ until school begins, and if I was it would 
only be setting a good example to the rising genera¬ 
tion to get away from the fire and do a little good 
honest work.” So it was that before long Manning’s 
axe added its sharp notes to those from the nearby 
hills. 

And on the trivial incident of the young teacher 
doing a kindly act for his old friend, hinged his whole 
future life! That was the first throw of the shuttle 
of fate, weaving a chain of events that was to lead 
Norman Manning into the veritable valley of the 
shadow of death. Was to put life and honor into 
deadly peril, and bring him by devious paths at last 
into such riches of friendship, freedom, and holiest 
love, as repaid him a thousand-fold for all the trials 
of the rugged way. 

The day at last drew near its meridian. Many of 
the axe-men had already taken the results of their 
labors to their homes in the valley when Manning, 
who had been the busiest of them all, threw his axe 
on his shoulder and took his way to the Hampton 
home. Following a path through the woods he came 
into the head of a little valley which he knew de¬ 
bouched just below into the larger one in which lay 
the Hampton farm. “ Uncle Jim Walton has been 
chopping in this hollow,” he said to himself, “ maybe 
we will walk home together; although, come to think 
of it, I have not heard his axe for an hour.” 

Even as he spoke the words he turned a sharp angle 


6 


A Drama of the Hills 


in the path and halted in his tracks with a cry of 
horror, for there, lying as he had fallen face down in 
the snow, with arms extended wide, lay the man 
whose name had been that instant upon his lips! 
The young man threw down his axe, sprang to the side 
of the motionless figure and tried to raise it. But 
the glazed eyes, the stiffened muscles, and the ghastly 
wound in the head, all proved that the poor old man 
was beyond human aid, and Manning laid him gently 
down upon the snow, and fled at full speed to give 
the alarm. 

With cheeks as white as chalk, wide eyed with hor¬ 
ror, hatless and dishevelled, he dashed into the Hamp¬ 
ton house with his terrible tidings. Two neighbors 
had stopped to rest for a few minutes at John Hamp¬ 
ton’s hearth and were chatting with the old man 
when the half frantic Manning rushed into the room. 
One of these chanced to be the constable of the town¬ 
ship, and by virtue of his office supposed to be in¬ 
formed of the lawful procedure in such cases, so when 
the excitement had died down somewhat, he assumed 
direction of the matter. Hampton wished to convey 
the body at once to the Walton home a mile down 
the valley, but this Burt, the constable, forbade. He 
insisted that the sheriff of the county, the coroner, 
and if possible the prosecuting attorney, should be 
summoned to view the body before it was disturbed. 
So Farris, who owmed the fleetest saddle horse in the 
neighborhood, rode post haste to Labrador, the county 
seat ten miles away, to notify the officials, while Burt, 


The First Throw of the Shuttle 


7 


Hampton, Manning and the remaining neighbor 
hastened to the scene of the crime. 

“ Here, men,” ordered Burt, as they neared the 
body, “ don’t none of ye git too dost to him. We 
wants to git all the evidence thar is so’s to ketch and 
hang the feller who done this work.” Thus the three 
halted a few feet from the body while Burt carefully 
examined the traces around. 

“ Hyar! ” he cried, “ whose axe is this hyar? ” 
“ That? why that is the axe that I used this fore¬ 
noon,” answered Manning, “ I must have dropped 
it there when I found the old man’s body.” 

Burt stooped and examined the axe with great 
care, and for a long time in silence. Then he slowly 
raised upright, and with stern face and closely set 
lips laid his hand upon Manning’s shoulder and said: 

“ Young feller I hate to say hit, but I have to arrest 
you fur murderin’ of this old man! ” 

“ Arrest me for killing him! Why man, God knows 
I did not do it. I found him just as I told you.” 

“ I hope ye are tellin’ the truth boy, I shore do,” 
said Burt, “ but lookee: hyar’s yer tracks in the 
snow, and them filled with the blood that run from his 
haid; hyar’s yer hat whar ye drapped hit when ye 
run; hyar’s yer axe, and hit all kivered with blood; 
and hyar’s blood on yer face and hands, and blood 
spattered all over yer clothes! young man I’m a’tellin’ 
ye, that ef ye ain’t the man that done hit, ye are 
a’showin’ every possible mark of hit! ” 

Poor Manning stood speechless and pale as the cold 


8 


A Drama of the Hills 


voice piled up the damning evidence against him 
He looked into the faces of the others and saw that 
one of them, at least, agreed with the constable in 
thinking him guilty; and with that knowledge his 
heart fairly stood still at the horror of his situation. 

Men have written of the boldness of conscious 
innocence, and yet many such a case as this has proved 
that the very consciousness of innocence may give to 
the actions of the accused every sign of guilt. The 
pale cheek; the wild eye; the faltering tongue; the 
trembling hand; all, all, are the age-old marks of 
guilt; and every one of them has been seen thousands 
of times as the accompaniment of perfect innocence. 

At length the blood flowed back to Manning’s 
heart, and flushed his cheeks once more; his eyes 
flashed, and with head held high, and dauntless glance 
he turned on his accuser: 

“ I understand how it is that you think your duty 
calls you to arrest me,” he said, “ and perhaps if I 
were in your place, and you in mine I should think you 
guilty as you think I am; but Sir, in spite of all that 
you have summed up against me, you are wrong. I 
did not do this deed. There are my tracks in the snow 
where I came down the hill; there must have been 
other tracks down the valley, but we have destroyed 
them with our own. My axe is bloody because I 
happened to drop it in the blood as I tried to lift the 
old man to see if I could help him. I am as innocent 
of this murder as the babe unborn.” 

“ Boys I believe him! I shore do believe him! hit 


The First Throw of the Shuttle 


9 


don’t stand to reason that sech a young man as I 
am a’knowin’ him to be, would go to do ary sech a 
thing! ” And as he spoke John Hampton reached and 
took Manning’s hand into his own iron grip. 

No human words will ever sound sweeter in Norman 
Manning’s ears than those in the rude speech of the 
old farmer. He had faced his accuser dry eyed and 
courageous, even while he felt that the whole world 
was conspiring against his innocent life; but these 
words of kindness and trust in him, broke him down 
and the tears filled his eyes as he tried in vain to thank 
this friend in his direst need. 

But Hampton’s belief in his innocence did not free 
Manning from the net of circumstantial evidence in 
which he was entangled; the constable still held him 
prisoner and watched him with drawn revolver in hand. 

Rapidly the news of the murder flew up and down 
the valley of the Osage Fork, and back into the sur¬ 
rounding hills. And as the tidings spread men saddled 
their horses and hastened in converging groups to the 
scene of the tragedy, until more than a hundred had 
gathered around the murdered man, lying in the 
snow of that little wooded valley. 

Soon word was whispered from one to another that 
the murderer was already under arrest. That he was 
none other than the young stranger who had been 
living at John Hampton’s for six weeks past, and who 
had been engaged to teach the school of Restful 
district. And as the story was repeated it took to 
itself, as is ever the case at such times new and more 


10 


A Drama of the Hills 


damning items of evidence, to make stronger and 
blacker the proof of Norman Manning’s guilt. 

No man can tell just what spark may set the blood 
lust flaming in human hearts. Here was a crowd of 
simple farmer folk, brave in times of danger as many 
of them had proved upon the bloody fields of Civil 
War; hospitable and kindly to a fault, in all their 
daily lives; most of them church members and Chris¬ 
tians to the best of their lights; and yet it was less 
than mid-afternoon when those men moved as by one 
common and unspoken impulse, upon the constable 
and his prisoner, determined that they would lynch 
Norman Manning then and there. So suddenly had 
the slumbering embers burst into deadly flame that 
the constable was taken wholly by surprise, and over¬ 
whelmed almost without raising a hand in resistance. 
Probably his own implicit belief in his theory of the 
prisoner’s guilt prevented him from offering any very 
strenuous effort, even if he had sooner realized the 
danger. 

Be that as it may, certain it is that in less than ten 
minutes after the first alarm, Manning stood with 
pinioned arms, and with the noose around his neck. 
A hundred stalwart hands upon the rope only waited 
the signal to swing him upward to a felon’s death. 
Then, in the very climax of fate, there rang a shout 
down the valley, and the sheriff with his posse, and 
the Prosecuting Attorney, swept onto the scene with 
their horses forced to the limit of speed. 

“ Hyar! ” shouted the sheriff, “ what’s this mean? 


The First Throw of the Shuttle 


11 


Drop hold of that rope every man of ye, or I’ll arrest 
the whole bilin’ of ye fur attempted murder! ” And 
the young Prosecuting Attorney added: “ I’m 
ashamed of you men; one murderer is bad enough, 
and here you were about to give me a full hundred to 
prosecute. Don’t think for a minute that I won’t 
hang any lyncher in Lafleet county if I can. I’ll 
prosecute that sort of murderer about twice as hard 
as any other.” 

Before the officers had ceased speaking not a hand 
remained upon the rope. The constable hastened to 
prove to his superiors his own rigid observance of 
the law, by cutting the cord that bound Manning’s 
arms, and throwing the rope from his neck, and the 
young man, thus snatched from the very jaws of 
death, stood unbound in the midst of the crowd, but 
a prisoner still. Then the coroner, who had accom¬ 
panied the other officers, selected six of the older men 
to serve as a jury, and an inquest was held. Needless 
to say it was of short duration, for in the mind of 
every man on the jury the verdict was determined 
upon before a word of evidence was heard. In vain 
Manning protested his innocence; in vain he told in 
detail his every act from the time of leaving the 
Hampton home that morning, until he dashed into 
the door with the news of the crime. He was keenly 
questioned by the officers without varying his state¬ 
ment in the slightest particular. Indeed so clearly 
and frankly did he answer every question, so minutely 
describe every incident, that he won the sympathy 


12 


A Drama of the Hills 


of many who had been ready to lynch him. The 
failure of all endeavors to show a motive for the crime, 
made several of those who had heard the testimony 
join John Hampton in his belief of the young man’s 
innocence. 

But the incriminating evidence of the bloody axe, 
and the fatal stains upon his hands and clothing were 
too strongly against him, and the verdict was: “ We 
the jury find that James Walton came to his death 
from the blow of an axe held in the hands of Nor¬ 
man Manning.” 

Then as a matter of course the sheriff took charge 
of the prisoner, and before set of sun Norman Man¬ 
ning found himself an inmate of the ramshackle old 
jail at the county seat, under a charge of murder in 
the first degree. 

Just as the sheriff was about to start with his 
prisoner John Hampton laid a kindly hand upon 
Manning’s shoulder and said in a low voice not heard 
by the crowd: “ Don’t go to gettin’ skeered Norman; 
More I studies over hit all, more I knows ye never 
done hit. And thars more’n one has said as much to 
me right hyar a’ready. Now tomorrer I’ll come up 
to town and I’ll git old Colonel Barton to take yer 
case. He’s the best doggone lawyer into all Missouri, 
and bein’ that I saved his life endurin’ of the war, 
when a big rebel were about to stick a bay’net into 
him, I do reckin thar ain’t nothin’ he wouldn’t do fer 
me. He’ll clar ye, dont ye be skeered, he’ll clar ye 
plumb clar! ” 


The First Throw of the Shuttle 


13 


And with the cheery words in his ears, and a warm 
glow around his heart because of them, Manning 
gripped the sturdy old fellow’s hand, and rode away 
with the Sheriff, not joyfully indeed, but with unflinch¬ 
ing spirit, and a determination to face the situation 
bravely, and to win victory out of the very jaws of 
defeat. 


CHAPTER II 

In Which a Voice is Heard 

The jail of Lafleet county had been built long before 
the Civil War. Doubtless in the days of the old 
pioneers it had been considered a model prison, so 
strong that it was folly for a captive to dream of escap¬ 
ing from it. But the years had told upon the ancient 
structure; the storms of many winters had beaten 
upon it, until the stout log frame, hewed out by the 
axes of the forefathers, had decayed and settled in 
many places. So great had been this decay that some 
years prior to the date of our story it had been neces¬ 
sary to prop the walls with great unhewn logs. These 
set with one end deep in the ground, and the other 
well up under the eaves, had proved barely able to 
keep the structure from total collapse. 

Of this building the lower story was used as the 
jail, while the upper floor was fitted as a residence for 
the sheriff. This official was allowed to employ a 
jailer, but could, if he so wished, add those duties to 
his own and put the additional salary to his own 
account. As there were frequently months at a time 
when the place was vacant the duties of jailer were not 
onerous, and sheriff Morton was only too glad to 
assume them. 


In Which a Voice is Heard 


15 


At the time that Norman Manning was brought in 
as a prisoner there were but two inmates of this rural 
bastile, an ancient violator of the local option law, 
and a man charged with stealing a horse. Into the 
central cell between these two malefactors the Sheriff 
led Manning, and taking off the handcuffs said to 
him: 

“ Make yourself to home now. Supper’ll be ready 
d’reckly.” 

Norman smiled to himself at the words. “ Home ” 
indeed! Here was a rough log walled room with one 
small window well up from the floor, and heavily 
barred. In one corner a rudely built bunk of unplaned 
boards held an old pillow and a blanket or two, 
indicating that it was supposed to be a bed. A chair, 
which from lack of the proper complement of legs 
was leaning against the wall, and a box supporting 
a bucket of water, a tin dipper and a cracked wash¬ 
bowl, completed the furniture of the place. 

But rough and narrow as the cell was, and scantily 
as it was furnished, he could yet see by the fast fading 
light that it was clean; and the surprise of this dis¬ 
covery made him feel somewhat more reconciled to 
his detention therein. The excitement of his discovery 
of the murdered man, and the rapid succession of 
thrilling events that followed it, had kept all thought 
of anything else out of his mind, but now he suddenly 
realized that neither a morsel of food, or a drop of 
water had passed his lips since early morning, and 
that he was literally faint with hunger and thirst. 


16 


A Drama of the Hills 


That recalled the sheriff’s promise that supper would 
shortly be forthcoming, but under such conditions it 
seemed an interminable time before the little wicket 
in the door opened, and an exceedingly clear and sweet 
voice said: “ Here’s your supper sir. I had given the 
others theirs before you came, so I had to cook yours 
afterwards. That is the reason I am so late.” 

The narrow hall outside the door was so dark that 
Manning could not see what manner of person this 
pleasant voiced young woman might be — that she 
was a woman and young he at once decided in his 
mind — but he answered: 

“Well it is too bad that I have made you so much 
trouble, and I am sorry. But I have neither eaten 
nor drank since before daylight this morning, and you 
may be sure I am ready for my supper, and thank you 
for it too.” 

“ Why you poor man,” the pleasant voice said, 
“ I’ll have to bring you some more when that is gone. 
It would never do for our hotel to get the reputation 
of not feeding its guests well.” And with a little 
laugh which sounded strangely out of place in that 
environment the voice ceased, and a light step carried 
its owner away from the wicket. 

Norman Manning was destined to see many cold 
and weary days in his future; days when hunger 
would have its grip upon him, but although he should 
live to the century mark, he will never forget the 
exquisite enjoyment of that first meal in the old 
Lafleet county jail. He felt sure that no such dainty 


In Which a Voice is Heard 


17 


food had ever been set before him, and when, before 
the end of the meal, the wicket clicked again, v and 
a fresh supply of biscuits, hot from the oven,^and 
flanked with a flake of honey in the comb, was handed 
in, the prisoner laughed and declared to his unseen 
servitor in the dark hall, that he would almost be 
content to become a permanent boarder in her 
“ Hotel,” if this was a fair sample of the regular 
menu. But the voice only trilled another little 
laugh, and then Manning was left to his solitary 
reflections in the dark. 

Stretched upon his hard pallet he let his mind 
wander back over his life. Far away in the twilight 
of his days, he recalled the time when as a little child 
his home was with his mother in an Illinois village. 
He remembered how that mother held him in her 
arms and wept as she told him of his brave father far 
away among the battlefields of the South; one of the 
great army of the Union, fighting for the life of the 
nation. Then he recalled the terrible day when word 
came to the cottage home that the husband and 
father had fallen at the head of his regiment in the 
battle of Pittsburg Landing. 

The memories of that sad time were as vivid to¬ 
night as on the days of their occurrence. The group 
of kind hearted neighbors vainly trying to assuage the 
grief of the stricken wife; the arrival of the casket 
which held the beloved form; the solemn tones of the 
minister reading the service for the dead; the sweet 
voices of the singers; he heard them all again. 


18 


A Drama of the Hills 


Then the lowering of the coffin into the grave, and 
as the first clods sounded hollowly upon it, the sight 
of his mother, herself stricken with death and falling 
into the arms of friends, never more to open her eyes 
upon Earth’s troubled scenes. Then in a day or two 
another open grave, and then fatherless and mother¬ 
less, without a known relative in the world, he faced 
life alone. 

Swiftly, years at a glance now, his mind flew on over 
the time that followed. His home in the orphanage 
provided for the children of soldiers. His schooling 
for a few years, and then his start out into the world 
to make his own unaided way. His ambition to be a 
man worthy of such parentage as his. The hard 
struggles of a moneyless lad, and the joy of winning 
little by little a humble foothold and place in the 
world. His decision to follow his father’s profession 
and to become a lawyer. His long hours of study at 
night, after other long hours of toil during the day. 
Then his teaching, as a step in the direction of his 
ambition. His coming to Lafleet County to apply 
for the principalship of the Restful school. His 
engagement for that position, and his pleasant six 
weeks in the humble home of honest John Hampton. 
And then this! A prisoner in the cell of a log jail, 
charged with the wilful murder of a harmless and 
gentle old man! 


CHAPTER III 
Friends in Need 

Half a mile up stream from the Hampton farm 
stands the little cross roads hamlet of Restful, which 
we have before mentioned. The “ Town,” as the 
farmers of the neighborhood proudly termed the 
place, consisted first, of the two story frame building 
occupied by Pilant & Wesley as a “ General Store.” 
In the rear of this emporium were a dozen, or so, 
pigeon holes behind a dingy glass front, constituting 
the post office from which the place took its name. 
Second only to the store building were the neat white 
residences of the two merchants; while the school 
house of the district stood a short distance back from 
the road in a grove of great black walnut trees. This 
building also served as the meeting place for the Rest¬ 
ful Methodist church at such times as the preacher 
on the circuit reached it in the round of his appoint¬ 
ments. A little further down the road was the black¬ 
smith shop of “Big Tom Leathers”; and last and 
least the humble two-room log cabin which sheltered 
the family of that worthy artizan. 

Leathers had taken advantage of the improvement 
in the weather to make a trip with wagon and team 
to the nearest railroad town, for a supply of coal, iron, 


20 


A Drama of the Hills 


and other items needed in his work. Thus it happened 
that he was one of the very few men of the neighbor¬ 
hood who had not been present in the little valley 
when the coroner's inquest was held. It was after 
dark that night when he drove up the road and came 
in sight of Restful. Late as it was he was surprised 
to notice that the windows of the store were still 
brightly lit, and that both in the store, and up and 
down the road in front of it, were scattered groups of 
men, who by their every gesture showed that they 
were laboring under great excitement. Halting his 
team at the first of these groups he said with a laugh: 

“ What's the matter that all you fellers is gethered 
hyar at this time of night? Has Billy Parten married 
the widder McNatt at last, or what’s up? " 

“ Tom," answered one of the older men in the 
group, “ 'Taint no laughin' matter brung us men 
hyar. We is hyar because old Jim Walton is a layin' 
dead and murdered, Tom, yander in his house. And 
him as good a man as ever old Lafleet County had 
a'livin into hit! " 

“ My God! " shouted the blacksmith, leaping from 
the wagon as he spoke, “ Who done hit? Don't 
never go to tell me that ye let the devil that done hit 
git away! " 

“ No Tom, he didn’t never git away neither. 
Leastways he were took red handed, and they got him 
safe in the county jail up to Labrador." 

“ Well bless God then boys, we've got him. Now 
then let's forty fifty us fellers strike fur Labrydor 


Friends in Need 


21 


right now, and take the bloody houn’ outen that thar 
old jail and string him up to the first tree! What says 
ye all? ” 

Those who heard this proposition broke into such 
shouts of endorsement that in a minute every man 
within hearing was gathered at the spot. And as the 
new comers learned the cause of the outcry they 
too added their voices to the chorus of fierce yells 
which testified the general joy that the leader, whom 
all this while they had been secretly longing for, was 
now found. Without another word horses were 
untied; girths were tightened; men swung grimly 
into their saddles, and within ten minutes a hundred 
stern faced avengers were waiting the word to follow 
Tom Leathers on their mission of vengeance. 

The blacksmith had his foot in the stirrup, and a 
coil of new rope from the store was being hung over 
the horn of his saddle, when he heard a young man at 
his side remark: 

“ Say Bill, I don’t reckin that thar young school 
master feller will git to do much teachin’ in Restful 
deestrik after all! ” 

“Well I should say not,” was the reply out of the 
dark, “ not after we fellers gits done with him, he 
won’t! ” 

“ What’s that ye are a’sayin’ boys? ” cried Big 
Tom, “ What for won’t the schoolmaster git to teach 
Restful school? ” ^ 

For a moment there was absolute silence as " it 
dawned upon the consciousness of the crowd that 


22 


A Drama of the Hills 


Leathers was as yet in ignorance of the murderer’s 
identity. Then a man at the blacksmith’s elbow 
spoke: 

“Why Tom, didn’t nobody tell ye? The school¬ 
master is the very feller that done hit.” 

“ Done hit! done what? ” shouted big Tom; 
“ Ef so be thar’s jest one feller hyar who’s got ary 
lick of sense left, tell me, what were hit the school¬ 
master done? ” 

“ Bless my soul man I’ll tell ye ef ye’ll give me the 
chanst. The schoolmaster killed old man Walton, 
that’s what! and it’s him you’re a’goin’ to lead us to 
hang up in Labrydor afore mornin’! ” 

The effect of this announcement upon the gigantic 
blacksmith was probably the greatest surprise to the 
body of men, of all the startling happenings of that 
day of excitement. Slowly he withdrew his foot from 
the stirrup. Slowly and stubbornly he straightened 
himself to the utmost height of his great stature. 
Then with a voice that rang through the darkened 
hills, and shaking his great fist in the face of the last 
speaker he shouted: 

“ Ary man a’top of God a’mighty’s arth who says 
that that thar young schoolmaster feller killed old 
man Walton, is a d—d black hearted lyin’ houn’!” 

“ What! ” shouted a dozen voices at once, “ And 
him took mighty nigh in the act of hit? And his axe 
a’layin’ in the old man’s blood! And his face and 
hands all spotted with blood too! Why Tom it jest 
nacherly HAS to be him as done hit.” 


Friends in Need 


23 


“ I don’t give a bob vee for all that thar talk boys. 
I knows a man when I sees one, and I’m hyar to tell 
ye that thar boy never done hit. Why only yisterday 
him a settin’ fur two good hours tellin’ my little 
cripple feller sech divertin’ tales that the pore little 
chap plumb forgot his pains, and laughed right out, 
he did, a’most like he used to afore he were hurted. 

“No sir boys, I’m all fur bangin’ the man who killed 
pore old Uncle Jim, but that man ain’t never Norman 
Manning, I’ll lay a hundred dollars to that thar. 
And moresoever I kin lick ary man in Lafleet County 
that goes to say he done hit! ” 

No man in that crowd had ever heard so long a 
speech from the blacksmith before, and they were 
silent with surprise at the sudden turn matters had 
taken. Furthermore, there were none present who 
did not know of the prowess of Tom Leathers in the 
rough and tumble mode of fighting that prevailed in 
the region. They knew that he had never met his 
match, and no man who heard that challenge dared 
to accept it. 

More than that, Leathers’ sturdy defence of the 
prisoner gave courage to men here and there in the 
crowd, to utter their own doubts of Manning’s guilt. 
Thus it came about that the gathering quietly dis¬ 
persed, and the imminent danger of lynohing, was 
temporarily averted. 

Honest Tom, in the excitement, had, for the only 
time in his history forgotten that he had not as yet 
had his supper, and he hastened to repair that over- 


24 


A Drama of the Hills 


sight as rapidly as possible. Then he remounted his 
horse and galloped down the river to talk over the 
events of the day with his old friend John Hampton. 
He found the family sitting around the fire place, 
debating in great perplexity the tragedy of the day, 
and the perilous case of Norman Manning. But 
although deeply concerned for the prisoner’s safety, 
both the sturdy old farmer and his motherly little 
wife were firm in their implicit belief in the innocence 
of the young schoolmaster. 

“ Stands to reason Tom,” said the old man, “ that 
the boy never done hit. Let alone that we’s all hev 
larnt to know him fur as peaceable kind hearted a 
young feller as ever lived, what ’und make him up 
and do sech a deed? Some on ’em ’lowed he did hit 
for the old man’s money; but I’m a’tellin’ ’em that 
the boy ain’t that kind. He comes of good stock up 
in Illeenoise, and he ain’t no thief, let alone a mur¬ 
derer.” 

“ The old man’s money ye say, Uncle John,” cried 
Leathers, “ why Sir, it were no longer ago nor yister- 
day that Manning were in my shop, and old Uncle 
Jim come in. And the old feller were a’tellin’ of us 
thet as soon as the weather let up a bit, he ’lowed to 
get out and cut him two three cords of wood to haul 
to the railroad, to git a little cash to pay his taxes 
with. ’Lowed he’d got plumb down to one four bit 
piece fur all the money he had in the world, and laffed 
about bein’ afeered some feller ’ud be a robbia* of 
him! he did so, pore old soul! ” 


Friends in Need 


25 


“ Well, that there shows how much sense thar is in 
the talk of Uncle Jim bein’ killed fur his money, ef 
Manning done hit, fur he knowed pintedly the old 
man didn’t have none. But who do ye ’low Tom is 
thar around hyar ’ud do sech a thing? I hev be’n 
a’studyin’ over the whole thing unte’l my haid is in 
a plumb whirl, and I jest cain’t locate no man in my 
mind in all this settlement who I could think of 
puttin’ it agin. Yes sir I hev studied on hit ever sence 
hit fust come up, and I cain’t think of ary man that 
I’d suspicion.” 

“ Say Uncle John,” said Leathers, “ let’s me and 
you go down to Uncle Jim’s. Maybeso some of his 
kin may suspicion somebody or ’nuther. Or maybeso 
they might say somethin’ to give us a pinter. Fur 
I sure ’low, Uncle John, that ef yon pore young feller 
is ever to come clar of this trouble you’n me’ll have to 
tote the big end of the log in a’doin’ of hit.” 

“ Tom, I b’leeve ye are plumb right. The boy is a 
stranger in a strange land, and thar’s all the power of 
the state of Missoury agin him too. Then them Wal¬ 
tons will put up money no end, and hire sharp lawyers 
to git to hang him, and hit’s jest me and you agin’ 
’em all. No I won’t say that neither, fur I have 
bleeved in a God of Jestice, and prayed to him every 
day for forty year, and I don’t ’low ever to live to see 
Him let an innercent man be done to death, jest 
because he’s pore and a stranger. So we’ll jest say 
it’s God with you’n me fur the boy. And by His help 
we’ll clar him, in spite of the world, the flesh, and the 


26 


A Drama of the Hills 


devil! ” And the old man laid one hand on big Tom’s 
shoulder, and gripped his iron fist with the other, 
while the tears shone in his honest blue eyes. 

11 Well Uncle John,” said Leathers, as he returned 
the other’s grip with usury, “ I ain’t nefer be’n much 
on prayin’. Seems like it’ ’ud sound a’most sassy fur 
a great big hulkin’ feller like me to be a hollerin’ to 
the Lord fur help, when it looks like he made me big 
enough to holp myself. But all the same I knows thar 
is a God, and I ’low like you say, he is bound to see 
jestice did. And if that’s so He’s jest nacherlly bound 
to jine with us and holp clar the boy. Now then let’s 
git up to Walton’s and see what’s to be did.” 

And so the oddly matched pair, the earnest old class 
leader, and the rough and tumble fighter, took their 
way to the stricken home of Uncle Jim Walton. 

Arrived there they found every window alight. 
At least a score of saddle horses were tied to the fence, 
and the grove across the road contained as many farm 
wagons and teams. From the doors came the sound 
of many voices and the constant shadows that flitted 
past the windows showed that the house was filled 
with an excited and sorrowing crowd, while many 
more filled the door yard between the house and the 
road. The Waltons were a numerous clan in the 
region, and evidently every one of the connection had, 
upon hearing of the tragedy, dropped all other tasks 
and hastened to gather en masse at the home of the 
murdered man. 

As the great blacksmith and John Hampton made 


Friends in Need 


27 


their way through the crowded yard they greeted one 
and another by name, adding here and there a word of 
sympathy, or voicing their abhorrence of the crime. 
But both noted that responses to these greetings, 
especially to those of the blacksmith, were rarely 
more than the briefest reply demanded. Indeed in 
some instances these replies were gruff and almost 
menacing. Leathers at once realized that this was the 
result of his ardent advocacy of the innocence of the 
school teacher. But he realized too, that it was but 
natural that these men, believing that Manning was 
the slayer of their kinsman, should feel angry at his 
own position, and he therefore said nothing but silently 
promised himself that when the right time came he 
would talk to them “ straight from the shoulder.” 

So he followed close at the older man’s heels into 
the house. Within doors the rooms were mostly 
occupied by women and children with a sprinkling of 
the gray haired patriarchs of the tribe. For one and 
all of these old men John Hampton had a clasp of the 
hand, and a sympathising word. Here too there was 
but little manifestation of ill feeling against either 
himself or his companion. 

They were soon drawn into the conversation upon 
the only topic occupying every mind there; the cruel 
murder of an old and defenceless man. And as they 
talked the faded eyes of veterans would flash with 
something of their youthful fires. Hands fit now only 
to keep a trembling hold upon a staff were clenched 
as if grasping once more the deadly weapons of their 


28 


A Drama of the Hills 


younger days; and quavering old voices rang again 
with vigor of youth. But neither of the visitors was 
able to draw from any the slightest clue upon which 
to base suspicion of any one except the schoolmaster. 
The entire gathering had accepted the verdict of the 
coroner’s jury as final, and one and all, old and young, 
united in denouncing summary vengeance upon Nor¬ 
man Manning. 

Feeling that any advocacy of the young man’s 
innocence in that place would only intensify the feeling 
against him, the two friends at length stepped quietly 
out of the house. In the yard they were instantly 
* aware that the atmosphere was much more distinctly 
unfriendly towards them than it had been on their 
arrival. They realized that a strong element in the 
crowd had been stirring up enmity against them while 
they had been in the house. But they gave no heed 
to the scowling faces and muttered threats, and had 
nearly reached their horses, when they found their 
way blocked. 

In the path stood a man rather above ordinary 
height, and with shoulders immensely broad and 
square. Above these great shoulders rose a thick, 
short neck crowned with a head almost as round as a 
ball, except that the jaws were as square as those of a 
bull dog, and the mouth was simply a straight slash 
across the lower quarter of the beastly face. His arms 
were so long as to be almost a deformity, reaching 
down to his knees as he stood, and his great knotted 
hands hung so unnaturally that they showed their 


Friends in Need 


29 


entire palms toward any one facing him. In a word 
the man was physically almost a copy of the great 
gorilla of the African jungles, and nature had set 
plainly upon him her warning to all who dealt with him 
to beware. 

“ Lookee hyar you two men,” he said in the most 
truculent manner possible, “ Fm a stranger in these 
parts, and don’t know the either of yous. But I am 
told by them that does know ye, that ye are friends of 
the d—d scoundrel that murdered my old Uncle that 
lies daid in the house yander. Now efsobe that’s so, 
I’d like to know what brings ye a shovin’ in hyar 
among the kin of the old man yer dear friend done 
killed? ” 

Hampton felt the sudden stiffening of the great 
muscles of the blacksmith’s arm against which his 
hand rested, but he quieted Leathers with a glance, 
and then he said: 

“ Stranger,” and his voice while perfectly calm was 
as clear as a bell, and carried to the limits of the 
crowded yard, “ Stranger James Walton and me has 
be’n like brothers fur fifty year. We went to school 
together when we was little chaps; we fit side and 
side fur four year endurin’ of the war; and we hev 
be’n brethren in the church fur forty year. Our love 
to each other were like the Bible tells about of David 
and Jonathan. We never had a word betwixt us, and 
thar wasn’t ary thing either of us wouldn’t have 
done fur the other. Ye say ye are his nephew; 
let me tell you stranger no feller never had no 


30 A Drama of the Hills 

better man fur an uncle. And ye up and asks me 
why am I hare! 

“Sir I am hyar bekase my best friend lies daid in 
yander; and bekase I knowed he’d a’wanted me hyar 
if he could hev chose. Ye said I were a friend of his 
murderer! Now may God fergive ye that lie like I 
do. I am agin his murderer with all my heart and 
soul. I am agin him unte’l it seems like I can’t 
neither eat nor drink unte’l I gets him. Ef I beleeved 
that ye had the right man in jail I’d say hang him, ef 
he were my only son. But I don’t bleeve this young 
feller they have took ever done hit. He is a good boy 
and he comes of good folks that don’t go around 
a’killin’ pore old men. I knows in my soul that the 
boy is innercent, and I ’low to give my time and what 
little money I kin raise, and the balance of my life ef 
needs be, to find the man who done the deed, and 
prove this pore boy clar.” 

As he said the last words the old man suddenly 
stepped closer, and with his face within an inch of 
that of the man he was addressing, he fairly shouted: 
“ Friend, will ye jin me in huntin’ down the man that 
did kill your old Uncle? Will you follow him like I 
will, like a wolf houn’ on the trail! Will ye do hit? 
Will ye! will ye I say! ” 

The great brute who had drawn this blast from the 
old hero had at first stood with head held high, and 
with angry and flashing eyes. But little by little as 
the old man’s words rang more and more earnestly 
his glance fell, and when Hampton shouted his chal- 



YE SAID I WERE A FRIEND OF HIS MURDERER? I AM AGIN HIM UNTIL 
IT SEEMS LIKE I CAN’T NEITHER EAT NOR DRINK UNTIL I GETS HIM. 


Page SO 
















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r I 

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Friends m Need 


31 


lenge for aid in hunting down the real murderer, the 
fellow seemed stricken with deadly fear, for he 
sprang backward, whirled on his heel, and fled 
through the crowd and into the dark woods across 
the road! 

“ Pore feller,” said Uncle John then, “ he’s all 
brokened up over his uncle’s murder; and no wonder 
says I. Come on Tom, let’s be a’goin’.” 

“ Hold on a minute Uncle John,” said Leathers, 
“ I want to speak my piece too, along of you. Now 
men, I cain’t talk in no sech a’way as Uncle John 
hyar, but I hev somethin’ to say to you fellers one and 
all. I’m with Uncle John and all the balance who 
wants to ketch and hang the man what went and 
killed pore old Uncle Jim. And I’m hyar to tell ye 
that when we gets the d—d scoundrel and strings 
him up, it won’t be no Norman Manning’s neck into 
that thar hemp collar. No gentlemen that boy is 
plumb white clean through. Thar ain’t ary drop of 
murderer’s blood into him. Ary man that says he 
done hit hes got me to lick! Unnerstan that don’t 
ye! ” 

And then Uncle John, fearing that Tom’s ardent 
partizanship would breed a riot and work harm to the 
cause in which they were enlisted, slipped his arm 
through that of the blacksmith, and fairly dragged 
him to his horse. 

Then when they were out of ear shot of the crowd 
and the darkness covered them, Tom Leathers pulled 
his horse to a stop, laid a heavy hand upon John 


32 A Drama of the Hills 

Hampton’s shoulder, and said in a voice tense with 
his feeling: 

“ Uncle John, I bleeve my soul, the nephew is the 
feller that done the killin’! ” And Hampton replied: 
“ Tom I hev to own that when the feller loped off 
into the woods the same idee come to me. But don’t 
whisper hit yit. There’s good men in that crowd what 
seen what he did, and I lay they’ll put it to him to 
clar hisself from what suspicions his actin’ up that 
a’way leads to. Now you’n me we’ll both on us keep 
our eyes and ears open, and we’ll camp on the trail, 
we will, unt’el we finds the real murderer. Anyway 
Tom, I bleeve the Lord hisself brung us up hyar 
tonight, and I’m powerful glad we come.” 

And Leathers answered: “ I’m afeered if we runs 
the killin’ home to that thar nephew, he’ll think it 
war the devil brung us up hyar! Howsomedever Lord 
or devil hit’s all the same to me efsobe we kin trap the 
murderer and clar our boy.” With which heterodox 
sentiment the conversation ended until the pair bid 
each other good night at Uncle John’s door. 


CHAPTER IV 

The Enlistment of Jabez Barton 

Early the next morning John Hampton and his big 
ally were in their saddles and en route to Labrador, 
intent on taking the first steps in an energetic defence 
of Norman Manning. They stopped a moment at the 
jail and were taken to Manning’s cell, merely to let 
him know that they were not neglecting to act in his 
behalf. Then they hastened to the office of Colonel 
Barton to enlist his services in the defence of the 
young school teacher. 

Jabez Barton was a diamond in the rough. He 
was a man rather below medium stature, and with a 
slight frame that at first conveyed the impression that 
physically he was almost a weakling. But every 
muscle in that slender body was as strong and tireless 
as tempered steel. Although well past three score 
years his hair was still of raven blackness; his eye 
bright; and his powers of endurance such as rendered 
him the terror of the entire bar when pitted against 
any of the legal lights in some long drawn out and 
exhausting battle in the courts. 

In the wild days of his youth he had been an active 
member of one of those bands of “ Border Ruffians ” 
which harried the anti-slavery men in Kansas. But 


34 


A Drama of the Hills 


when the cloud of actual Civil War finally burst upon 
the land, he cast in his lot with the Union. By nature 
an intense partisan of any cause to which he was com¬ 
mitted, he threw himself into the conflict with every 
power of mind and body. Young as he was he suc¬ 
ceeded in raising a regiment of stout Ozark Hill 
men; was appointed its Colonel, and fought through 
the four years of war with courage and distinction. 
Again and again promotion was offered him, and as 
often declined. In his own w T ords he “ preferred to 
fight it through with his own boys.” At the close of 
hostilities he had served two or three terms in Con¬ 
gress, and had then settled down to the practice of his 
profession in Labrador. 

John Hampton and Tom Leathers climbed the steep 
stairway on the outside of a two story frame building 
fronting upon the Public Square, and without knock¬ 
ing pushed open a door on which a tin sign bore the 
legend: “ Jabez Barton, Lawyer.” 

They found the Colonel with his coat off and a corn 
cob pipe between his teeth. He was on his knees try¬ 
ing to kindle a fire in a great rusty cast iron stove, with 
scant kindling and green wood. The labor was ex¬ 
hausting, and the Colonel accompanied his efforts 
with a terrific stream of expletives and tobacco smoke. 
He had barely glanced over his shoulder when the 
door opened, but he paid no further attention to his 
callers until, having used up alike his expletives, his 
kindling, and the oil out of his office lamp, he had 
succeeded in coaxing up a roaring fire. 


The Enlistment of Jabez Barton 35 

Then he rose and rubbing off a modicum of the oil 
from his hand upon his pants, he reached forth that 
hand to Hampton with a cheery: “ Howdy old 
comradethen turning to Leathers he added, 
“ How are you, you poor little weazened up giant 
anyhow! ” “ Here boys,” he continued, “ pitch them 
Missouri statutes out of those chairs, and set down 
and tell me what deviltry you young fellers have been 
up to this time, that you want me to help you out of.” 
Then stopping to catch his breath and light his pipe 
he sat down on the edge of the yellow pine table and 
said: “ Now then fire away.” 

As Hampton began to state their errand Barton 
suddenly leaped to his feet and shouted: “ Hell fire 
man! Do you want me to defend the fellow that 
killed Jim Walton! One of my old boys, and as good 
a man as ever lived! No sir John Hampton, I won’t 
do it, and I’m d—d if I was ever as took back in my 
life as I am at your asking it of me. I am going to 
offer to prosecute the scoundrel, and to do it for 
nothing at that. Don’t say another word to me about 
it. I’ll bet the bloody hound is the spawn of some 
d—d old rebel if the truth was known, and I sure 
’low to help hang him.” 

John Hampton knew his man too well to interrupt 
this tirade, or to take offence at it; but quietly waited 
until the storm had somewhat calmed, and then took 
up his story at the precise point where it had been 
interrupted. 

“ Now Colonel thar’s no use in you a’pitchin’ and 


36 


A Drama of the Hills 


a’chargin' that a'way. Jest you listen and hear me 
through. Then if ye say ye won't take the case I 
won't say ary word. This hyar young fellow come to 
me with mighty good recommends from men you and 
me both knows. He brung them recommends to me 
as Cheerman of the D'rectors of Restful Deestrick to 
git to teach our school. 

“ His father were Colonel Manning of the 95th 
Illeenois rigimint that went into Fort Donelson 
along of us, under John A. Logan. He were killed at 
Pittsburg Landing, and his wife drapped dead at his 
buryin'. This boy w T ere jest a little feller then, with¬ 
out ary kin in the world, pore little man! But he fit 
his way along honest and straight. Now, what with 
farm work, and clerkin' in stores, and teachin' school 
now and agin, and readin' of law at night, he is mighty 
nigh ready to apply for examination and permission 
to practice. 

“He has ben livin' with me fur better'n six weeks, 
and I’m a'tellin' ye that thar never were no better boy 
nowheres. Yisterday mornin’ he were up afore day, 
a'helpin' me feed the stock, and after breakfast, as 
soon as hit were light enough to see he tuk an axe and 
lit out for my timber up on the ridge, and I'm a’tellin' 
ye he cut more wood agin noon than I could have done 
in two days, along of my rheumatiz. Then on his way 
down to the house fur dinner he comes onto pore old 
Brother Jim a'layin' thar daid, with his haid split 
open. He drapped his axe right thar and raised the 
old man up, jest like you or me 'ud a'done, Colonel, 


The Enlistment of Jabez Barton 37 

and then when he seen that the man were shore ’nough 
daid, the boy run to my house to give the alarm, and 
git help. What elst ’ud ye a’had him to a’done? 

“ I know he drapped that axe whar hit got kivered 
with blood, and he got blood onto his face and hands 
and clothes when he were a’handlin’ pore old Jim. 
But Colonel, I got that thar axe laid up fur myself, 
and sir thar ain’t ary drap of blood onto hit exceptin’ 
of the one side where it laid in it on the ground. And 
thar ain’t ary hair a’stickin’ to hit neither, like thar 
would a’been ef it had done the work. Now then I 
want ye to come along with us to the jail, and see the 
boy fur yourself. I lay a hundred dollars ye won’t 
say he’s no murderer when ye see him.” 

The Colonel’s face was a study as Hampton poured 
forth this statement, with untutored eloquence, and 
all the earnestness of which he was capable. At first 
the old lawyer paced the floor like a caged and angry 
lion; but gradually his pace slackened; then his left 
hand sought the depths of his pants pocket; then he 
came to a dead halt, and the right hand with all the 
fingers spread, was passed upward through his mane 
of black hair till each individual hair stood upright as 
if charged with electricity. 

As John Hampton ceased speaking Barton laid his 
hand on the old farmer’s shoulder and said: “ You 
mustn’t mind my fussing John; always was liable to 
go off at half cock. D—d if I don’t like the tale 
you’ve told. Colonel Manning’s son you say? Well 
sir if the son of as brave a man as Colonel Manning is 


38 


A Drama of the Hills 


a bloody murderer, then I’ll never believe in heredity 
again as long as I live.” 

“ But come on, what we waitin’ for? Let’s get to the 
jail and get this thing lined up. I’ll show these fellers 
a thing or two before I’m done with ’em. Trying to 
hang an innocent man are they? and him the son of 
Colonel Manning at that! No sir old comrade, we’ll 
buck to this job and clear the boy, and then we’ll 
join hands and hunt hell through, if needs be, till we 
find the man that did kill poor old Jim Walton.” 

So saying the Colonel pulled on his coat, thrust his 
cob pipe into his pocket, and his hat onto the back of 
his head, and led the way to the jail with Hampton 
and Leathers at his heels. The two friends indulging 
in sundry nudges of their elbows into each other’s 
ribs, and many “ dry grins ” over the sudden and com¬ 
plete conversion of Colonel Barton to their cause. 

The three men were admitted to the jail by the 
Sheriff’s daughter, and conducted to that official’s 
rooms on the second floor of the building. This 
young woman was frequently spoken of by her father 
as: “ First deputy keeper of the jail, when her Daddy 
is called away; housekeeper fur him when he comes 
back; and the best, and purtiest, and pear test little 
woman in all Missoory! And that’s going some too 
stranger! ” 

“ Why Mary, howdy little woman,” cried the 
Colonel: “ Is the sheriff at home? ” “ No sir,” she 
answered, “ he was called out west of town this 
morning. So he left me in charge, with Uncle Little- 


The Enlistment of Jabez Barton 


39 


berry Smallwood to keep an eye on the prisoners until 
he comes back.” 

“ Well I don’t reckon it will make any difference 
much. We want to talk with that young Manning 
you have in one of the cells. I am his attorney you 
see, and want to go over his case with him. Let’s 
see you know Uncle John don’t you? And this little 
feller he’s Tom Leathers, from down on Osage Fork.” 

“ Well I reckin she do know me,” cried Hampton, 
“ knowed me ever sence she were big enough to know 
anybody. Me and my old woman, we sets a heap of 
store along of her I’m a’tellin’ ye.” 

As for big Tom, he blushed to the roots of his hair, 
but looking into the girl’s smiling face and seeing 
there nothing but kindness and good will, quickly 
recovered his balance and answered with a grin: 
“Yes, Miss, I’m jest a little feller like the Colonel 
says, and I’m powerful ’bleedged to him fur taking me 
under the wing of sech a big man like him! ” With 
which retort Tom felt that he had acquitted himself 
with credit, and evened up matters between himself 
and Colonel Barton. 

“ Why Colonel Barton,” the girl said, “ there is not 
room for three of you in the cell, and I am puzzled 
what to do. If it was some ordinary crime he could 
be brought right up here to see you. But he is charged 
with murder, and father told me to be very careful 
about him.” 

“Now look a’here darter,” spoke up Hampton, 
“ ye know me, and ye know I won’t lie fur no man 


40 


A Drama of the Hills 


a’livin’. Now jest let that boy come up here and I 
go bail he don’t make ary move to git away; and when 
we gits through he’ll go back to his cell as gentle as a 
lamb.” And both the Colonel and Tom Leathers 
adding their assurances to Hampton’s, Mary at 
length took down the keys from their nail, and went 
down into the jail, while the three men waited for 
her to return with Manning to the Sheriff’s office. 

Now Manning had received his morning meal from 
the same hand that served his supper the previous 
night. The same sweet voice had bidden him good 
morning, and this time he had caught a glimpse of 
a face framed in the little wicket. An oval face 
crowned with a bewildering mass of bronze curls, 
several of which had escaped from a narrow ribbon 
that sought to control them, and lay in ringlets on 
the broad low forehead. A face lit by a pair of great 
gray eyes, and made complete by lips as red as cher¬ 
ries, and arched like Cupid’s bow. Mary too, now 
that daylight was streaming in at the high window of 
the cell, was able to see what manner of man this 
prisoner might be, and she mentally summed up his 
appearance as eminently satisfactory. 

She saw a man probably twenty-five years of age; 
broad shouldered, straight as an arrow, and above 
medium height. She saw a face on which nature had 
wasted no effort to make it handsome, but had done 
far better by making it manly and honest. Had set 
in it a pair of dark eyes that had not in them the 
capacity of quailing before mortal man; and lips and 


The Enlistment of Jabez Barton 41 

chin where every line showed steadfastness and 
earnest purpose. So to their dying day will these 
twain carry in their inmost hearts the pictures impres¬ 
sed upon them in those few moments, that wintry 
morning in the old jail. 

And now Manning heard again the light step he 
had already learned to listen for, and then the voice 
again. This time it rang with decision, and, sweet and 
clear as ever, carried authority and power in every 
tone. She was speaking to the old guard, who had 
already peered in on Manning and spoken to him 
briefly that morning. 

“ Uncle Littleberry,” she said, “ Colonel Barton is 
attorney for Mr. Manning and is upstairs with John 
Hampton and Tom Leathers, waiting to see him. So 
you stand at the door at the end of the corridor, and 
Fll take him upstairs.” 

“ Why Miss Mary,” squeaked the old fellow, “ ye 
cain’t do no sech. This hyar feller is a desprit bloody 
murderer, and it ain’t no gyrl’s place to be a’takin’ 
him outen his cell.” 

“ Uncle Littleberry,” and the voice had a keener 
ring in it now, “ I’m responsible here. All three of 
the men upstairs pledge their word that the prisoner 
will make no trouble. I don’t in the least believe that 
he killed old Mr. Walton anyway. He don’t look like 
that sort of a man. Now then go to the door, I’m 
going to take him upstairs.” 

“ But Miss Mary,” again piped the old man “ looks 
is powerful deceivin’. The wust is the best lookin’, 


42 


A Drama of the Hills 


most ginerally. Hit’s agin all law and order, and —,” 
but the sentence remained unfinished, for a small foot 
was heard to stamp vigorously on the hard floor, and 
the voice said: 

“Now then do as you are told or go home, it don’t 
matter which.” The squeaking voice instantly 
ceased then, and Manning heard the old fellow’s steps 
as he went to his station at the door. Then he heard 
another step and a key rasped in the lock, the door 
swung open and there stood the “ Voice ” in bodily 
presence. Another picture imprinted upon Man¬ 
ning’s memory to all eternity. 

“ Mr. Manning,” she said, “ Colonel Barton and 
your two friends who called this morning are waiting 
upstairs to consult with you. There is no room for 
them here, so although it is against all rules, I am 
going to let you meet them in our parlor. I will only 
ask you to add your word to theirs, that you will 
make no effort to escape, and that you will return to 
your cell when the conference is over.” 

“ That you shall certainly have Miss-,” “ Mary 

Morton,” she said as he paused. 

“ Miss Morton, I’d be both foolish and ungrateful 
to refuse to give my word of honor, and I heartily 
do so. Let me thank you, too, for the words I could 
not help overhearing just now; that you do not 
believe me guilty. God knows that I am as innocent 
of this crime as a little child, and it touched me to 
hear you, a stranger, speak as you did.” 

Mary’s eyes dropped their fringed curtains for a 



The Enlistment of Jahez Barton 


43 


moment, and then she said: “ Let us hope it won’t 
be long until all shall think as I do, that you did not 
do the deed.” 

And then he followed her into the room where his 
friends awaited him. I shall not try to describe that 
consultation or others that followed it. Suffice it to 
say, that at Colonel Barton’s urgent advice the 
preliminary examination, usual in such cases, was 
waived. In the excited state of the public mind in 
Lafleet County, the wary old lawyer realized that the 
chances against his client were increased a hundred 
fold. He knew too that an active effort at that time, 
to clear Manning, might easily result in kindling the 
smouldering embers of mob law, into an irresistible 
and fatal conflagration. So although it meant nearly 
four months in Jail for Manning before he could hope 
for a trial, the Colonel’s advice was taken and the 
prisoner became one of the permanent boarders in 
the institution which the sheriff jocularly termed the 
“ Hotel De Morton.” 

It was early in January when the murder was 
committed, and the regular term of the Lafleet Circuit 
Court did not convene until the first Monday in May. 
For all these weeks Norman Manning must perforce 
content himself to a life of complete inactivity. To 
one who had always gloried in a free out-door exist¬ 
ence this prospect at first seemed little better than a 
living death. 

But the human mind is a curious thing, and some¬ 
how Manning found himself looking forward to a 


44 


A Drama of the Hills 


prolonged residence under the sheriff’s roof with 
composure and complacency. He marvelled greatly 
in his own mind, that this was so, and the mystery of 
it rose constantly before him. 

Meanwhile the Colonel saw to it that his client’s 
cell was well supplied with books, papers and writing 
material. His friends around Restful too, did not 
forget him, and at least once a week Aunt Mandy, 
or little Sallie Leathers, the small wife of the great 
blacksmith sent to his cell some choice sample of their 
good old Missouri delicacies. At the same time the 
regular Chef of the Hotel De Morton, being none other 
than the possessor of the “ Voice ” we have heard, 
saw to it that the prisoner’s fare was not just such as is 
ordinarily supposed to be provided by the authorities 
having in charge a Missouri county jail. 

The long time, too, before the date of the trial 
served not only to allay the bitterness of public feel¬ 
ing, but gave so much the greater opportunity for the 
Colonel and his two ardent helpers, John Hampton 
and Tom Leathers, to search far and near for some clue 
to the real murderer. In these searches they were 
forced to acknowledge that they had completely 
failed. Not a hint could they gather; not a scintilla 
of proof could they uncover on which to base the 
theory that any one but Norman Manning was the 
guilty man. The criminal, whoever he was, had done 
his work in a moment, and had disappeared as swiftly, 
leaving no trace behind him, so far as the most earnest 
search could discover. 


The Enlistment of Jahez Barton 45 

Undoubtedly he had come up the valley, and fled 
by the same track, and must have left his trail plainly 
in the snow. But first Manning’s own tracks, fol¬ 
lowed by those of the Constable and himself, and the 
others who first gathered around the body, with the 
hundreds who swiftly followed, had obliterated the 
footprints of the slayer, and with them apparently 
all chance of his identification. 

All these elements of the case made Colonel Barton 
realize that in all probability nothing but a lucky 
chance would ever unmask the real culprit. It is 
true that he listened to Hampton and Leathers as 
they told of the strange actions of Walton’s nephew 
Jacob Branson, on the night after the murder, and 
had cross questioned them closely concerning it. 
Their testimony impressed him so much that he put a 
tried and trusty detective upon the fellow’s trail, and 
he allowed both himself and the others of Manning’s 
friends to build hopes upon what this agent might 
discover. After consulting Manning and his staunch 
friends the Colonel caused the wide-spread announce¬ 
ment of a reward of $500.00 for information leading 
to the return to Lafleet County of Jacob Branson. 
But the weeks ran into months and no further evi¬ 
dence came to light, and no tidings of Branson until 
at last he was forced to the conclusion that he would 
have to build his case entirely upon two points in his 
client’s favor. First: his unimpeachable character. 
And second: The entire lack of motive to lead him 
into such a crime. 


46 


A Drama of the Hills 


The cashier of the Bank of Labrador also was ready 
to swear that John Hampton had introduced Man¬ 
ning at the bank some weeks prior to the murder, and 
that the young man had then deposited some five 
hundred dollars. This amount being the modest 
savings he had accumulated. The bank official stated 
that the entire sum first thus deposited to Manning’s 
credit, was still in the bank, with the exception of a 
few dollars paid out from time to time on checks to 
local store keepers. Then, too, Manning was engaged 
to teach the Restful school for a term of six months, 
at the then large salary of fifty dollars per month. 
Out of these materials Colonel Barton realized that 
he had to build up his case. Meanwhile he never 
relaxed his search for more direct evidence of his 
client’s innocence. But with it all he felt reasonably 
sure that with an unprejudiced jury he could win a 
verdict of acquittal. 


CHAPTER V 

In Which Others are Added to Manning’s 
Helpers 

On the morning of that first conference between 
Manning and his attorney and two friends, Mr. 
Littleberry Smallwood, who we have seen filling the 
responsible position of armed guardian of the Lafleet 
County Jail during the Sheriff’s absence, yielded 
reluctantly to Mary Morton’s authority and took 
up his position at the corridor door as ordered to do. 
Here he watched with evident but silent disapproval 
as Mary conducted her prisoner from his cell to the 
parlor in the upper story. Then as the door closed 
upon them he snatched off his hat and vigorously 
scratching the bald spot on top of his head remarked 
to himself: “ The durn wimmen critters are all alike. 
Thar’s my old woman now, she’s fifty year old if she’s 
a day, and she weighs near as much as three of me; 
and then hyar’s this slip of a gyrl, Mary Morton, 
twenty year old and slim as a bean pole, and the both 
on ’em, big and little, shoves me ’round, and runs over 
me like I warn’t no ’count! ” 

Uncle Littleberry was one of the characters of 
Labrador. He was a very small man, so small as to 
be almost a dwarf. At the outbreak of the Civil War 
he had enlisted in the confederate ranks. Little of 


48 


A Drama of the Hills 


stature as he was he had rendered a good account of 
himself during the four years of storm, and took a 
creditable part in many a sharp engagement. After 
the collapse of the confederacy he had returned to 
his native heath, and had spent his life in the useful 
and humble position of a town jack at all trades. 
Beating carpets; mowing lawns; cutting weeds; 
cleaning chimneys; and so on, meanwhile filling up the 
remainder of his hours in his tiny cobbler’s shop 
repairing boots and shoes. 

One duty would at once cause him to cancel every 
other engagement and hasten to its performance. 
This was when the Sheriff called him to act as tem¬ 
porary guardian of the jail. It was an awe inspiring 
sight to see the little man march down the street when 
summoned to this task. On these occasions he ap¬ 
peared with an old fashioned “ stove pipe hat ” 
perched well on the back of his head; upon his 
shoulder an old musket, picked up on the battle field 
of Wilson Creek; around his waist a heavy leather 
belt and cartridge box, from the same source as the 
musket. They bore the characters, “U. S. A.” upon 
them, but they had served four bloody years fighting 
under “ Pap Price ” for the Confederacy. The old 
gun had long since passed its days of usefulness, and 
for years its owner had not been able to fire it, but 
Uncle Littleberry would as soon have thought of 
going on guard minus a leg as without that gun. 
What would have happened if a prisoner had actually 
endeavored to escape from the old veteran’s custody 


Others are Added to Manning’s Helpers 49 

will always remain a mystery, for luckily no such 
attempt had ever been made when he was on duty. 

The old fellow had remained a bachelor until past 
his fiftieth year, and had then for the first time since 
his return from the war journeyed beyond the limits 
of Lafleet County. Where he went no one knew, 
nor would he ever tell, but when he returned he was 
accompanied by a wife. And such a wife! Aunt 
Mealie was proportionately as large as Uncle Little- 
berry was small. Taller by a head and a half than her 
liege lord; broad and solid at every point where he 
was slight and slender, it was a sight for “ gods, 
angels, and men ” when the pair walked down the 
street together. An old sailor, who by some strange 
chance had found a harbor here in Labrador, fifteen 
hundred miles from salt water, said once as the two 
passed on their way to church: 

“ Looks like one of them blooming little fussy tug 
boats in New York Harbor a’towin’ a big broad 
beamed Dutch East Indiaman! ” And to one who 
had seen both sights the comparison was very pat. 

Uncle Littleberry’s method of announcing his 
marriage was characteristic of the man. The newly 
wedded pair had arrived in Labrador after dark, and 
as soon after inducting his bride into her new home as 
possible, Uncle Littleberry had made some excuse 
and hastened away to the store on the square, which 
was his regular loafing place. This emporium was 
kept by an old army comrade and had been the little 
man’s favorite resort for years. 


50 


A Drama of the Hills 


Here the presence of the preacher in charge of the 
Methodist church of which Uncle Littleberry was a 
member, evidently suggested to him a neat way of 
announcing his wedded state. So he said to the 
minister: 

“ Brother Thomson, how much now should ye say 
I weighed? ” 

“ Well Brother Smallwood,” the Parson answered, 
“ really I wouldn’t guess you would go any over a 
hundred pounds.” 

“ Well now,” cried the old fellow, “ that jest shows 
how deceivin’ looks is. Parson I’ll bet ye five dollars 
I weigh four hunderd pound! Moresoever I kin prove 
it by scrip ter! ” 

“ Brother Smallwood,” and the Parson’s voice and 
visage were stern now, “ Brother Smallwood you know 
it is against the rules of the church to bet, and also I 
do not like to hear you speak so flippantly of scrip¬ 
ture.” 

“ Well then Parson, the bettin’ part of hit were only 
‘ figgerative,’ like I’ve heered ye say yourself. And 
I don’t ’low to flip no scripture neither, whatever that 
is, but don’t the Bible say that when people is married 
them twain is one flesh? ” 

“ Yes Brother Smallwood it certainly says so.” 

“ And ye ’low that’s true, don’t ye? ” 

“ Yes brother, sure, it’s true.” 

“Well then Parson, and all you fellers, I weighs 
jest four hunderd pounds. I pulls down an even 
hunderd myself, and I got a wife down to my house 


Others are Added to Manning's Helpers 51 

who weighs jest plumb three hunderd! Weighed her 
myself on the cattle scales down to Mashfield yister- 
day! Now ef one hunderd and three hunderd don't 
make four hunderd 'rithmetic is changed sence I 
were a boy. So ye see Parson, I weighs four hunderd 
like I said. Ef ye come 'round to my house tomorrer 
I'll prove hit by yer own eyes. And I ain't a'flippin' 
no scripter neither! " 

After Manning had returned to his cell from his 
interview with his counsel, Uncle Littleberry was 
somewhat ashamed of his fears of an attempt to es¬ 
cape, on the young man’s part, and said to Mary: 
11 Mary I feel like I ought to ' pologise along of me 
bein' so cantankerous about lettin’ that young feller 
upstairs. I be'n takin' a long keerful look at him 
sence he went back to his cell, and whilst he didn't 
know nobody was a’lookin’ at him, and I'm hyar to 
say he ain’t got ary mark onto him of a man what 
would go to kill another man fur nothin'. That thar 
boy never had no more to do of killin' pore old Jim 
Walton nor I had. Any man with a lick of sense kin 
see that ef he takes a look at him. I nacherly 'low to 
see ef I cain't find some trail of the feller what did that 
deviltry too, and holp git this young feller clar. Fur 
shore's the world he never done hit.” So Manning 
had unknowingly enlisted another, if a humble, 
advocate of his innocence. 

And so the weeks passed until they numbered six 
since the day of the murder. The occupants of the 
other cells had been taken elsewhere and Manning 


52 


A Drama of the Hills 


was the sole occupant of the jail. Day by day he 
listened the more eagerly for the click of the wicket, 
and the face of Mary Morton. More and more he was 
depending upon her bright smile and cheery words 
to nourish his courage even as the food she brought 
sustained his body. 

Unknown as yet even to his own consciousness, he 
was becoming more dependent upon the three daily 
visits of the girl than he had ever been upon anything 
else in life. The day had three spots of joy and light, 
all the remainder of the twenty-four hours were 
endurable only because they had the remembrance 
of these few blissful minutes. Gradually, although 
neither of them planned it or realized that it was so, 
Mary tarried longer at the wicket. By degrees their 
intimacy increased until he had given her, little by 
little, the whole story of his life. In return she gave 
him the simple record of her own years. She told him 
of the mother who had gone to her grave ten years 
before, leaving her little daughter to her heartbroken 
husband. She told of her love for and pride in her 
father, and of his for her. Of their three years of 
separation, while she attended a college in Illinois. 
Then of the loss of his property, swept away in paying 
the debts of a dishonest official whose bond he had 
signed. Then the hard years on a little backwoods 
farm; and then, like a fortune thrown into their 
hands, his election as sheriff of Lafleet County. 

Thus in a thousand ways the man in the cell and 
the sheriff's daughter helped and encouraged each 


Others are Added to Manning's Helpers 53 

other. They talked of books, and found that their 
tastes in that regard were much alike. They com¬ 
pared notes on the news of the day, and Manning 
marvelled no little at the keenness of her comments on 
a vast variety of subjects. She told him, too, of the 
talk among the farmers who thronged the square of 
the town each Saturday, as it referred to himself and 
the crime of which he was charged; and she rejoiced, 
as she assured him, that now in every group discussing 
his case there was sure to be at least one man to take 
up the cudgels in his behalf. Her joy that public 
sentiment was thus changing in his favor was so sin¬ 
cere and genuine that Manning could but realize that 
here was one advocate who believed in his innocence 
with a fervor that shut out any possible doubt to the 
contrary. 

And so one night as he lay in the pitchy darkness 
of his cell it flashed upon him, like a veritable light¬ 
ning stroke, that he loved this girl! Loved her with 
every power of mind, body, and soul. Loved her it 
seemed to him as never woman was loved before; 
loved her to the last gasp of his breath, the last drop 
of his blood; loved her for all time and all eternity. 
And then, even as the ecstasy of this knowledge was 
throbbing like waves of flame through his veins, his 
heart stood still with a despair which fell upon him 
like a bolt from the blue. 

Who was he to love a sweet, pure, innocent girl 
like Mary Morton? He, the inmate of a felon's cell! 
He believed by thousands to be guilty of a cruel and 


54 


A Drama of the Hills 


brutal murder! And love, which can raise a soul to 
the highest pinnacle of bliss, can also cast the same 
soul into the deepest pits of despair, even as it cast 
his. It would not be love if it could not do it. It 
would not be love if it did not make a man feel un¬ 
worthy of the priceless jewel of the faith and love of 
the woman of his heart. 

And so for the long hours of that dark night Norman 
Manning suffered in his Gethsemane. Then just as 
the first dim light sifted through the bars of his window 
God spoke to him the truth. That although in a 
prison cell he was not there justly. That all his young 
life he had kept himself pure and clean; and that once 
cleared of the net that had entangled him, he could, 
and he would, push his suit for the one whom he now 
knew was the one woman in all God’s universe for 
him. And with the coming of that thought he slept 
as peacefully on his prison cot as when a little child 
he had slumbered upon his mother’s breast. 

And how fared it with Mary Morton? Her life 
was too busy, her days too full of active duties to give 
her much time for communing with herself. She was 
by no means the type of girl who imagines herself in 
love with every presentable man she chances to meet. 
Yet she knew that she liked the prisoner in cell 
number two. She actively advocated his innocence 
in her talks with the sheriff. Advocated it so earnestly 
that that good man, made wise by the years to trust 
a pure woman’s intuition rather than much indubit¬ 
able proof, acknowledged that he also believed in 


Others are Added to Manning's Helpers 55 

the boy, and was actively searching for proof in 
his behalf. 

Yes, Mary told herself that she liked Norman 
Manning, and that she was sorry for him. It seemed 
so hard, so unjust, that a strong, active young man, 
so well equipped for good work in the world, should 
be held all these months locked in a cell like a common 
thief. And when she thought of his cheerful courage, 
and the indomitable spirit with which he faced his 
troubles her heart throbbed with pity. 

And pity, which in such tender lodgment has times 
without number blossomed into life’s divinest gift, 
quietly bided its time until the hour should strike, 
when circumstance and opportunity should unite to 
bid it in a moment bloom into a love dearer than life, 
stronger than death, and bridging the chasm between 
time and eternity. 


CHAPTER VI 

The Hand that Struck the Blow 

When the murdered Walton’s nephew, Jacob 
Branson, fled so precipitately, at John Hampton’s 
sudden challenge, his action aroused surprise and 
suspicion among others of those present besides John 
Hampton and Tom Leathers. A large proportion of 
the company were in some degree related to Bran¬ 
son, and one and all were active partisans of the 
Waltons, and had naturally been in sympathy with 
their kinsman when he so defiantly halted Hampton 
and Leathers as they were passing through the crowd. 

But partisan and biased as they were they could 
not fail to suspect that there must be some strong, 
secret reason to throw Branson into such a panic, and 
cause him to flee to the woods like a maniac. After 
Hampton and the blacksmith had ridden away several 
of the principal men in the throng, gathered out of ear 
shot of the rest and excitedly talked over the strange 
actions of their kinsman. 

“ Efsobe he hed killed Uncle Jim hisself, he couldn’t 
have given no plainer notice of it, nor what he done, 
jest now,” Said one. “ No,” added another, “ and 
ef he warn’t kin to us all, and ef we didn’t know we 
already had the feller what done the killin’ fast in 



The Hand that Struck the Blow 57 

jail, Fd feel like leadin’ a bunch to put a hemp collar 
on Jake’s neck myself! Thar’s many a man stretched 
hemp for less fool actions than what he done right 
hyar tonight.” 

Then one of the older and more conservative men 
spoke: “ Now boys hit’s up to us Waltons, to go 
mighty slow and careful like. We wants the murderer 
hung, and we ’low to do that hangin’ fur ourselves 
too. But we shore don’t want no innocent man strung 
up by us, nor nobody elst. Efsobe Jake comes in and 
gives a straight account of hisself and his quare 
actions, we would all feel a heap better. But shore as 
thar’s a God, hit’s up to Jake Branson to clar up the 
’spicion his own doin’s has raised. Leastways, listen 
now all yous, untel Jake does clar hit up, I fur one 
moves we don’t raise ary hand to hang the school 
teacher. Hit ain’t no more than fair I say. What 
says ye all? ” 

This proposition to postpone the execution of 
vengeance on Manning until one of themselves should 
be able to clear his own skirts of the crime, aroused 
great opposition among the younger and more impetu¬ 
ous of the clan. These urged that the man whom the 
law said was guilty was already in their power. He 
undoubtedly had friends wbo would rally to his help. 
Smart lawyers would be employed, and, as in scores 
of cases of which they all knew, he would come off 
scot free. Unless they wished to have the crime go 
unpunished, the thing to do as soon as the murdered 
man should be in his grave, was for the Waltons to 


58 


A Drama of the Hills 


ride as oae man to Labrador, take Norman Manning 
out of the jail and hang him. 

But calmer councils prevailed at last, and it was 
agreed that for the time being no action should be 
taken. Branson they felt sure would return and 
explain his .actions. That return would be due the 
next day, that being the day of the funeral. And it 
never occurred to them that so near a relative of 
James Walton as the son of his own sister, would 
intentionally absent himself upon such an occa¬ 
sion. 

But the next day came and went. The funeral was 
held and the old man’s body was laid in the family 
graveyard on his farm; and Jacob Branson was not 
among the mourners! Anger was now added to 
surprise in the hearts of the kinsmen, and Branson’s 
continued absence made it possible for the more 
conservative element among them to hold the re¬ 
mainder to the agreement that Manning should not 
be molested until Branson’s actions should have been 
explained satisfactorily. So the critical moment, 
when it seemed virtually certain that the Waltons 
would ride that night to lynch Manning, passed, 
until some new development should cause another 
gathering of the clan, and re-kindle the fires of ven¬ 
geance among them. 

It will be remembered that after Hampton and 
Leathers had told Colonel Barton of the strange 
actions of Jacob Branson, the old lawyer had put a 
trusted detective upon the trail, with instructions to 


The Hand that Struck the Blow 


59 


leara all possible of the relations of the murdered man 
with his nephew as well as to locate Branson’s where¬ 
abouts on the day of the crime. 

The detective first made his way to the neighbor¬ 
hood, some thirty miles away in the borders of Wright 
County, where Branson’s home was located. He 
discovered that the man he was after left the place 
two days prior to the murder, without telling where he 
was going or how long he would be absent. He had 
not been at home since, and his family, who had heard 
of Walton’s murder supposed that Branson had also 
heard of it and had gone to attend the funeral. 

Neither did any one know that there had ever been 
any trouble between the uncle and nephew. Indeed 
the two had rarely met and were practically strangers 
to each other. Search as he would this was all the 
detective could learn. He spent a hard week in the 
saddle, rode some hundreds of miles over the hills, and 
at last returned to Labrador and made his unsatis¬ 
factory report to Colonel Barton. 

Meanwhile what had become of Jacob Branson, and 
why was he in hiding? To answer these questions it 
will be necessary to go back a little in the course of our 
story. Branson was a farmer, and a stock buyer in 
a small way. He was also a money lender in small 
sums, to such as could comply with his usurious terms. 
He was gifted by nature with a knavish knack of 
getting the better of any bargain into which he en¬ 
tered, and while almost wholly unlettered he was 
also devoid of any scruple or compunction, and so long 


60 


A Drama of the Hills 


as he managed to keep free from the law set no limit 
to the advantages which he would take. 

Scores of men had sorrowful reason to remember his 
methods when short crops or sudden calamity had 
forced them to apply to him for a loan, for they had 
found him heartless and grasping in the terms he 
made and a veritable Shylock in demanding the ful¬ 
fillment of those terms to the smallest particular. 

But with all his shrewdness and unscrupulous 
methods Branson did not prosper. He was a drunk¬ 
ard, and wasted in riotous living much of his unjust 
gains, so that he was almost always in debt and need¬ 
ing money. Some weeks prior to the murder of his 
uncle, Branson had gathered about half a carload of 
cattle, and as prices were good he was anxious to get 
them to market at once. But search as he would, he 
found it impossible to find the cattle to complete his 
car load, and had about decided to ship with the car 
half empty, although he knew that the extra cost 
would reduce his profits materially, when he learned 
that a widow some ten miles away had about the 
required number of cattle. She refused to sell, but 
after much argument she was persuaded to add her 
stock with Branson’s, he agreeing to take the car load 
to the city himself, to sell them for her, and return her 
share of the money as soon as he reached home. 

After selling the cattle, with more than a thousand 
dollars in his pocket, the fellow could not deny himself 
a touch of city life, as he understood that life to be. 
He patronized the saloons; sat in at several games of 


The Hand that Struck the Blow 


61 


poker, wherein his natural knavishness aided him to 
add somewhat to his money. But alas, he was not 
proof against the temptations of the red light district, 
and the next morning awoke in the city prison without 
a cent in his pockets! He had been neatly and effect¬ 
ually cleaned out by some of the agreeable ladies and 
gentlemen whose acquaintance he had formed the 
previous day. 

By giving a policeman his watch to pawn he 
managed to raise enough money to pay the fine and 
cost, which the Police Magistrate assessed against 
him for disturbing the peace, and to give the policeman 
five dollars for his aid. Then he found that he had 
barely enough money left to pay his fare to his home. 
He arrived there with a fearsome tale of assault and 
robbery to account for his penniless condition. A 
statement, borne out as it was by the battered condi¬ 
tion of his countenance was accepted by his imme¬ 
diate family with implicit faith that such was the 
usual fate of those who ventured into a great city. 
But he owed the widow three hundred dollars for her 
share of the cattle; there was also due another pay¬ 
ment of three hundred dollars on the mortgage upon 
his farm, and he had not a dollar with which to meet 
either obligation! 

He fairly quaked in his shoes at the thought of 
facing the widow and her two stalwart sons without 
the money which was their due. He was not manly 
enough to go to them and make a clean breast of his 
delinquencies, and probably, even had he done so, it 


62 


A Drama of the Hills 


would only have made his plight worse than it already 
was. So he rode in every direction frantically seeking 
to borrow six hundred dollars, wherewith to pay the 
widow, and meet the installment upon his mortgage. 

But six hundred dollars was a great sum in the 
Ozark backwoods at that time, and he could not find 
the money. One or two of the richest farmers could 
indeed have aided him if they had been so inclined, 
but his record was against him. He had always been 
selfish and exacting to the last degree. No turn or 
twist had ever been too sharp or insignificant for him, 
if by taking it he could gain an advantage. No terms 
were too severe, no treatment too contemptible for 
his use when dealing with other men. Outside of 
criminal liability under the law, he had set no limit 
to his sharp practices. Heretofore these methods 
had always resulted to his advantage, but now he had 
fallen into the same toils that he had so often spread 
for others. His reputation for extortion and harsh 
dealings was well known, and there was little sym¬ 
pathy for him among those who learned of his straits, 
and much satisfaction was expressed that he was at 
last getting a dose of his own medicine. 

Still he kept up the desperate search for the money. 
As a last resource he decided to ride into Lafleet 
County and appeal to his numerous relations there, 
or perhaps to borrow it from his Uncle James Walton 
alone, for by some means he had gained a greatly 
exaggerated idea of the old man’s financial ability. 

As he neared the valley of the Osage Fork he had 


The Hand that Struck the Blow 


63 


met his uncle with an axe upon his shoulder, on his 
way to the woods, and dismounting he had walked by 
the old man’s side up the little valley. He talked with 
Walton long and earnestly, and set forth his desper¬ 
ate need of the money in the strongest terms he could 
command. The uncle was wholly sympathetic, but 
assured him that personally he had no ready money 
at all. Was in fact about to cut a few cords of wood 
to obtain the means to pay his taxes. But he told his 
nephew of Peter Walton, another of the clan, who he 
thought might be able to lend him the money. 

At this Branson had ridden post haste to see the 
man his uncle had told him of. He found him a 
person with many of his own characteristics, and by 
no means scrupulous about taking advantage of his 
relative’s necessities. Finally after much beating 
about the bush his cousin, of about the fourth remove, 
said: 

“Now Jake I don’t know ye at all. I have barely 
heered tell that thar was sech a feller livin’ sommers 
over in Wright County. Now I’ll tell ye what I’ll 
do, and it’s all I will do, too, ye can take hit or leave 
hit alone: I’ll write a note fur one thousand dol¬ 
lars due in six months. You take and sign hit, and 
bring hit back to me with Uncle Jim Walton’s name 
writ under yours, and I’ll count ye out six hundred 
dollars.” 

In vain Branson swore and pled; the more he 
protested the greater was the enjoyment of his tor¬ 
mentor. He was indeed being paid in kind for many 


64 


A Drama of the Hills 


just such experiences inflicted by himself upon his 
own helpless victims. But prayers and curses alike 
failing to change the hard terms offered him, he at 
last cried: 

“ D—n it all then man, write out your cussed note. 
I jest natcherally got to hev that money.” Then with 
the note in his pocket he rode back to present the 
matter to his uncle. But James Walton was an old 
and cautious man. He knew but little of his nephew's 
financial responsibility, or even of his honesty, and 
he proceeded to ask a few very keen and shrewd 
questions. Questions which soon resulted in the 
younger man involving himself in half a dozen glaring 
contradictions. Each contradiction only adding to 
uncle Jim’s unwillingness to obligate himself for a sum 
large enough to rob him of his all if he should be 
called upon to pay it. So the final result was that he 
kindly but firmly refused to put his name to the note. 

Then indeed Branson showed in his true colors. 
He cursed the gentle old man in the vilest terms of 
human speech. He reviled him as a traitor to a kins¬ 
man, and a disgrace to the Walton name. And at 
each fresh epithet the sturdy old veteran had smiled 
calmly, and patiently waited for the ruffian to exhaust 
his store of abuse and take himself away. Then 
deciding to resume the work that the discussion had 
interrupted he stooped to turn the trunk of the young 
tree that he had felled, into a position more convenient 
for cutting it into lengths. 

The move was a fatal one. In an instant the devil 


The Hand that Struck the Blow 


65 


of revenge seized full possession of the cankered heart 
of Jacob Branson. He saw the bent form of the old 
man; saw the axe lying ready to his hand, and quick 
as a flash, almost without his conscious volition the 
cruel deed was done. He had struck but the one 
swift, wicked, stroke, and the old man’s gentle spirit 
had taken its flight. 

Then realizing the peril in which he had placed 
himself; filled not with remorse but with craven fear 
of the consequences to which he was liable, he acted 
swiftly and intelligently to cover his tracks and escape 
before the crime should be discovered. He picked up 
the axe, carefully cleaned the blood from it with a 
handful of dried leaves, then stuck it lightly into the 
tree trunk, and leaping upon his horse fled at full 
speed down the valley. 

Late that afternoon, while still quaking with terror 
he learned how fate had played into his hands in the 
arrest and accusation of Norman Manning. With the 
horrible load of fear lifted from him he had ridden 
boldly to the home of his victim. Had looked upon 
the still form from which his own hand had driven the 
life. Had joined in the cry for instant vengeance upon 
Manning. Then when all seemed moving wholly in 
his favor he sought to win a stronger hold upon the 
Waltons, and thus to make more certain the speedy 
lynching of Manning. With this in view he had boldly 
challenged and insulted John Hampton in the yard of 
the Walton home. 

But when Hampton met his defiance so calmly, aod 


66 


A Drama of the Hills 


established his right to be there as a mourner for his 
life-long friend; when, too, the old man had turned 
upon him with his dramatic challenge to join in the 
search for the true murderer: then indeed did guilt 
and cowardice combine in Branson’s breast to unnerve 
and terrify him. In an instant he felt sure that this 
terrible old man knew of his deed. His terror and his 
accusing conscience rendered him incapable of reason¬ 
ing how impossible it was that this should be the case, 
and in an instant he turned and fled into the dark 
woods. 


CHAPTER VII 
The Flight of Cain 

Branson plunged into the woods and fled frantically 
through the darkness without any idea of direction. 
In imagination he heard the swift footsteps of pur¬ 
suers and the baying of dogs upon his track. He was 
an accomplished woodsman, and he brought to bear 
his every art to elude the throng he believed to be at 
his heels. At last after hours had passed he realized 
the utter folly of his course. Realized that by his 
action in flying he had inevitably drawn suspicion to 
himself. Suspicion that would cause all who had any 
doubts of Manning’s guilt, to focus their attention 
upon him. With this realization he cursed his folly, 
his dead uncle, and his grasping money-lending 
cousin. But with all his cursing he was still convinced 
that his only safety now lay in continued and distant 
flight. He must flee from any who had ever known 
him; must desert wife and children, and the farm 
which represented his whole life-time savings, and 
abandoning everything hide himself in some remote 
place. So all that star-lit wintry night he doggedly 
pushed his way. Not at random now, but keeping the 
North Star upon his left hand he tramped steadily 
to the east. Up hill and down, occasionally along 


68 


A Drama of the Hills 


some wood road that happened to run in the right 
direction, but generally through the pathless woods. 
Avoiding the farm houses lest the watch dogs should 
betray his passing; climbing fences; crossing streams 
upon the ice; all night he plodded stubbornly along. 

Then just as the gray tinge in the east told of com¬ 
ing day he came upon a small barn full of hay and 
remote from the farmhouse to which it belonged. 
Delighted at the timely discovery he climbed into the 
loft, and burrowing into the hay well down under the 
eaves, he dropped into the dreamless sleep of complete 
exhaustion. All day he slept, and late in the after¬ 
noon awoke with a clamorous appetite, and nearly 
perishing for water. 

Carefully peering through the chinks of the barn to 
make sure no one was in sight, he crept out. Close at 
hand he found a spring unfrozen in spite of the intense 
cold, and drank deeply. Then plunging face and 
hands into the cold water he rose feeling like a new 
man. But he dared not seek food at a farmhouse yet. 
His fears pictured every man in the region on the 
watch to seize him and return him to the gallows. 

So straight to the east again, he resumed his flight. 
Once, about midnight he came out of the woods and 
found that he was only a few yards distant from a 
small house. He listened intently but heard no sound 
of either dog or master. Being within a few steps of 
the farmer’s smoke house he decided to risk seeking 
food therein, and crept as stealthily as an Indian to 
the door. He was rejoiced to find that it was only 


The Flight of Cain 


69 


fastened with a hasp, and was not locked. In five 
minutes he was on his way again with a smoked ham 
under his arm, and munched a piece of it as he went. 
In a deep ravine of the hills he lit a fire and toasted 
bits of the meat over the coals, and ate till his appetite 
was satisfied, and again resumed his travel. 

By this time he estimated that he was at least fifty 
miles from his starting point, and that he might, with 
care, continue his journey by daylight. Thus it 
happened that, making his way along a road he over¬ 
took a man with a small drove of cattle, which he was 
attempting to drive towards the railroad. The fellow 
was riding one horse and leading another. His cattle 
were stubborn, and he was making but slow progress. 
As soon as he saw Branson the drover raised a cry: 

“ Say stranger, if ye’ll git onto this here led horse, 
and holp me drive these cattle to the railroad, I’ll 
give ye two dollars fur the job, and see ye 
fed.” 

“ Good enough,” was Branson’s answer, and forth¬ 
with he found himself mounted upon a good horse, 
and with food and hire in prospect. Late that after¬ 
noon at the railroad station, he made himself so useful 
that the drover made him an offer to accompany him 
to St. Louis, and again the murderer felt that fortune 
was indeed favoring him, and hastened to accept the 
proposition. It was past midnight of the next night 
when Branson awoke from a long sleep upon the 
cushions of the caboose to find the train standing in 
the railroad yards in St. Louis. His employer was 


70 


A Drama of the Hills 


also awake, and Branson surprised that worthy man 
by asking him to pay him his agreed wages at once. 

With five dollars from the drover, and as much more 
from the remnant of his own funds, he hastened along 
the tracks until he reached the Union Depot, where he 
studied the time tables hanging upon the walls, long 
and diligently. At last he decided upon the direction 
in which he should go, and stepping to the ticket 
window purchased transportation to Louisville, Ken¬ 
tucky. In less than an hour after arriving in St. 
Louis, he took the train, and soon was speeding over 
the prairies of southern Illinois at fifty miles an hour. 
Arrived at Louisville his good luck again favored him, 
and he managed to ensconce himself in comfort 
among the bales of hay in a freight car that formed 
part of a train pulling out for Atlanta. 

At an obscure little station on the banks of the 
Tennessee River he slipped from the train and struck 
out for the east on foot. Walking industriously; 
avoiding all intimacy, with any of the few travelers 
he met upon the road, a few days found him in the 
heart of the Cumberland Mountains, nearly a hundred 
miles from a railroad, and among a simple and primi¬ 
tive people who rarely saw a newspaper, and who knew 
little and cared less for any news from the outside 
world. 

Here at last he felt that he was certainly safe from 
pursuit. Welcomed with the unquestioning hospital¬ 
ity of the mountains he quickly succeeded in establish¬ 
ing himself in the confidence of his hosts. He joined 


The Flight of Cam 


71 


in their rough sports, hunted over the mountains 
with them, and ultimately made a place for himself 
with some of them, in operating a moonshine distillery. 
Incidentally he patronized the products of the still 
with the best of his fellows. 

In his selfish joy at his escape he took not a thought 
that back in the Ozarks his poor little wife, and his 
old mother, were certain to be sold out of house and 
home. His freedom from pursuit and danger satisfied 
his hardened soul, and he chuckled to himself whenever 
he thought of the way in which he had fled and hidden 
his tracks against any possibility of detection. 

And thus it was that the efforts of Colonel Barton, 
as also those of the entire Walton clan, seeking the 
fugitive from very different motives as they were, 
failed to solve the mystery, and it was generally con¬ 
cluded that Branson had been stricken with sudden 
insanity, and had fled to some unknown spot among 
the hills and destroyed himself. 


CHAPTER VIII 
The Verdict of Love 

The first Monday in May, set by law for the regular 
session of the Lafleet County Circuit Court, came this 
year upon the second day of the month. As the time 
approached the excitement over the coming trial of 
Norman Manning, deepened and spread until it 
probably exceeded that attending any other trial in 
the history of the county. The lack of any visible 
motive for the crime; the brutality of it; the good 
impression made by Manning upon all who had met 
him; the added mystery of the peculiar actions and 
sudden disappearance of Jacob Branson; all these 
united to make the trial the absorbing topic in every 
corner of Lafleet County, and for a long distance 
around its borders. 

After the first excitement following the crime had 
died down somewhat, and men had allowed them¬ 
selves to take a sober second thought, there arose as 
we have seen a sentiment in Manning’s favor. This 
was steadily encouraged by John Hampton and many 
others, especially by the gigantic blacksmith, Tom 
Leathers. Indeed the latter had on two or three 
occasions enforced his arguments in favor of Man¬ 
ning’s innocence, by vigorous use of his terrible fists, 


The Verdict of Love 


73 


and those opposed to him in these discussions had in 
every instance good cause to regret their course, 
whatever their opinion of the guilt or innocence of the 
accused. 

But besides the strenuous arguments advanced 
by Leathers there had grown up a strong belief, 
among a large number of men, that they were at 
least, not convinced of the guilt of Norman Manning. 
And although these men by no means formed a 
majority of the community, they did include a large 
proportion of the intelligent and best citizenship of 
Lafleet County. 

Against all these, however, was ranged in solid 
phalanx the entire Walton connection to the remotest 
relationship in the whole region. And these formed a 
by no means contemptible force. It apparently 
mattered little to most of them whether the accused 
was innocent or guilty. One of their number had been 
cruelly slain, and some one must pay the penalty. 
If Branson had been found and proven to be the mur¬ 
derer they would have insisted upon his condign 
punishment. But Branson was not in their hands, and 
Manning was, so much the worse for Manning, and 
with one accord they proposed to see to it that he 
hung. 

To this end the kinship had held numerous gather¬ 
ings at which quite a large sum of money had been 
raised, and a committee appointed to secure counsel 
from abroad to assist the local prosecutor at the trial. 
The engagement of this extra lawyer was however 


74 


A Drama of the Hills 


kept strictly secret, lest the defence hearing of it 
should also secure more able assistance than the local 
bar afforded. 

The grand jury met on the day appointed and, as 
was expected promptly returned an indictment against 
Norman Manning for murder in the first degree. 
And now the lines were drawn indeed, and the young 
man’s life would soon be at the mercy of twelve of his 
fellows. Manning was sitting in his cell late in the 
afternoon of that day trying to be interested in the 
book in his hand. But he found that his mind could 
not be held to the subject treated in the volume, or to 
any other than the news given him in an interview with 
Colonel Barton that forenoon, namely the meeting of 
the grand jury, and the certainty of their indictment 
of himself. 

Still it was a distinct shock when he received the 
news of the actual indictment. It was nearly dusk 
when he knew of it. Then he heard Mary’s step 
drawing near, and as it was not yet time for her regular 
visit he instinctively felt that she had something of 
importance to communicate. She opened the wicket, 
and for a moment looked in upon him without a word, 
although he saw that her lips moved. 

“ Mr. Manning,” she said at last, and he noted 
that her voice trembled as she spoke, “ have you been 
told the news? ” “ No,” he replied, “ I have heard 
nothing since Colonel Barton was here this morning, 
and there was no news in what he told me.” 

“ I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” she said, 


The Verdict of Love 


75 


“ but the grand jury have indicted you for that awful 

-,” and to Manning’s astonishment her head 

drooped against the wicket, and she began to sob like 
a heartbroken child. 

Poor Manning was in agony. What could he do? 
What could he say? The girl’s emotion set his pulses 
to beating at lightning speed and he longed with an 
almost uncontrollable longing to comfort her with the 
words that crowded for utterance. But he kept an 
iron grip upon himself, and although the effort made 
the cold drops stand on his forehead, he remained 
motionless and speechless. 

“ Oh it is so cruel,” she sobbed, “ so wickedly and 
unjustly cruel. Any one looking at you would know 
in an instant that you were incapable of such a brutal 
act. And yet the whole power of a great state is to be 
used in the effort to take your life. And the worst of 
it is there is nothing that I can do to help you. Don’t 
think Mr. Manning that I haven’t tried to help; 
indeed I have, and now it has come to this! ” And 
again the sobs stopped her speech. 

“ Mary! ” and neither of them noticed that he used 
the name for the first time, “ Mary I beg of you not to 
grieve so.” The strain he was under made his voice 
vibrate like a tense cord, “ This is only what I have 
expected all the time. It had to come before I could 
face my accusers and prove my innocence. You 
speak of trying to help me! My God, Mary I cannot 
say all I want to, but this I will say, that come what 
may out of this trial, whether life or death, as long as 


76 


A Drama of the Hills 


I live I will cherish the comfort you have given me 
here in this cell, in your belief in my innocence. Yes 
and I will say more, that come life or death, I thank 
God for giving me your friendship. It is worth all it 
costs, even if it costs all.” 

Again, as on that morning when he first looked into 
her face, Manning saw that same face framed in the 
little wicket. But now the great gray eyes, new 
washed by the tears she had shed for him, looked 
steadfastly into his own, and in their crystal depths 
he read that which made his heart sing for joy, even 
standing as he was under the impending shadow of the 
gallows. 

Not another word was spoken by either, but pure 
spirit talked unashamed with pure spirit, and when 
Mary Morton turned away, she had given her whole 
heart and soul into the keeping of Norman Manning, 
although even yet that fact had not dawned upon her 
innocent mind. And just as surely, and with full 
knowledge of it in his inmost soul, did Manning know 
that all the love that man has to give to the one woman 
of his heart, he gave in unstinted measure to Mary 
Morton. And in his cell, charged with a deadly 
crime, assured that within a few days his life would 
be the pawn played for in the legal game of words, 
knowing all this, Manning lifted up his whole heart 
in thanksgiving for the sweetest, rarest, best gift this 
old world ever gave to any man, the priceless, deathless 
love of a pure true-hearted woman. 


CHAPTER IX 

Uncle Littleberry has a Visitor 

The sun of late April was shining fervently upon the 
Public Square of Labrador. The tiny leaves of 
maples and elms, and the pink bloom of the peach, 
and snowy flowers of apple, plum and cherry hastened 
to unfold in the balmy air. The door of the diminu¬ 
tive building occupied by Uncle Littleberry Small¬ 
wood's shoe repairing emporium stood wide open. 
From within there issued, almost as fast and furious 
as the musketry fire in one of the old veteran's battles, 
the ceaseless rat-tat-tat of his hammer as he nailed on 
half soles and heels to individual members of the pile 
of old shoes before him. 

But fast and continuous as was the racket of the 
old man's hammer, there floated above it on the quiet 
spring air his shrill falsetto, squeaking in endless 
iteration and reiteration a line from some old camp 
meeting chorus of his boyhood: 

“ Hard trials, great tribberlations, Oh my Lawd.” 

But a shadow came between the songster and his 
fair share of sun light, and he looked up to learn the 
cause of the eclipse. “ Hello thar," he peeped, “ I 
hev seed things in my time 'ud let daylight through 
a heap bet ter'n that thar carkiss of yourn! " 


78 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ That's all right old man," answered the stranger, 
who was an unprepossessing looking fellow, sallow 
of complexion, dark of feature, and furtive of glance, 
“ That’s all right, but I want to speak to you so I 
come across to your shebang. Yer name’s Littleberry 
Smallwood I reckin? ’’ 

“ Well now I ain’t a’sayin’ what my name mout be 
untel ye tells me yourn. What mout yer name be 
stranger? ’’ 

“ Name’s Peter Walton ef ye must know,’’ answered 
the other. “ I’m one of the kin of this hyar Uncle Jim 
Walton what was killed last Jannery.’’ 

That’s hit is it? ’’ Snapped Uncle Littleberry, 
“ Well what ye want ’ith me? I ain’t killed no Wal¬ 
tons ’s I knows of. Mind ye I ain’t a’sayin’ thar 
ain’t a heap of ’em needs killin’ neither! ’’ 

“Well now,’’ said the visitor, “ I ain’t a’keerin’ how 
many of ’em ye kills, efsobe ye don’t kill me. See hyar 
old man let me come in and set down, maybeso I kin 
tell ye somethin’ that’ll intrust ye. Never seen no 
sech a small shoe shop no how.’’ 

“ Set down in the door then, efsobe ye must set 
somewher’s. Hed this shop made small a’purpose, 
so’s my old woman couldn’t git into hit! Had to hev 
some place to flee to when the storms ariz! Well 
now ye’er sot, spose’n ye see efsobe ye kin git to 
hatchin’ right quick? Thar’s a heap of work a’waitin’ 
fur me to do. I ain’t got no time to be a foolin’ with 
no man, nur woman neither bless the Lawd.’’ 

Thus urged the stranger said suddenly: “ Ever 


Uncle Littleberry has a Visitor 


79 


meet up with Jake Branson? ” The words seemed to 
enrage the old man and his thin voice fairly shrieked: 
“ Meet up with him! Well I should say so. The 
lowest down, orneriest, plumb dirty houn’ dog ever I 
seen. Used to hang aroun’ hyar ten fifteen year ago. 
But I ’lowed the devil done got him long ago, special 
sence all of ’em a’huntin’ of him caint find hide nur 
hair of the varmint! ” 

“ Well,” calmly replied Walton, “ I ruther think 
myself that the devil done foreclosed onto him shore 
’nuff. Leastways hit looks like he plumb disappeared 
offen the face of the arth. And mind ye he dis¬ 
appeared jest after Uncle Jim Walton were killed. 
Say old man, what reward is thar up fur evidence to 
clar this hyar school teacher of a’killin’ Uncle Jim? ” 

“ Uh-uh! So that’s what ye’re a’smellin’ aroun’ fur 
is hit? I didn’t ’low ye were afflicted with no gineros- 
ity cramp colic no how! Well sir thar’s a right smart 
of a reeward up for information to clar Manning, 
I’m a’tellin’ ye, and I kin put ye next to them that 
has it better’n ary man alive. But lookee hyar now: 
Efsobe I puts ye agin hit, and ye have ary thing they 
pays ye fur, one square, plumb, even half of what ye 
gets is mine! Unnerstan’? ” 

Peter Walton drew a long face at that, and argued 
that Uncle Littleberry should be satisfied with a third 
of any reward they might receive. But the wise little 
veteran met the proposition coolly. 

“ Shucks,” he said, “ I’ve be’n on the trail of Jake 
Branson myself ever sence the schoolmaster were 


80 


A Drama of the Hills 


jailed. Ye better go git some news that is fresh. 
This hyar hes be’n daid four days, ‘and by this time hit 
stinketh!”’ And with a grin at his quotation from 
scripture he began a perfect fusilade of blows upon a 
half sole. So at the first interval in which it was 
possible to make himself heard, Walton hastened to 
capitulate. 

Then he told the old man, that on the day of the 
murder Jake Branson had come to him in dire distress, 
and begging a loan of six hundred dollars. How he had 
the money, but not knowing much about Branson had 
demanded that he get Uncle Jim to sign a note with 
him as security. How he had “Writ out the note for 
six months, and fur one thousand dollars, not keerin’ 
to do the business without makin’ somethin’ outten 
hit.” And how then Branson had ridden away to get 
his uncle’s signature to the note. 

“ And next thing I knows I heered as how pore old 
Uncle Jim were killed. I never thought much about 
hit at first, but when Branson never come back with 
no note; and when I heered that he done skipped the 
country, jest becase, so them that seen it tells me, old 
man Hampton axed him if so be he’d holp ketch the 
man what killed uncle Jim, why hit’s plumb clar to 
me how hit all were. He rid to uncle Jim and wanted 
him to go onto that note, and when the old man 
wouldn’t he ups and kills him. Then hyar comes 
along the schoolmaster and gits hisself into hit. I 
wouldn’t never ’uv said ary word about me a’suspi- 
cioning Jake, him and me bein’ kin like, but when I 


Uncle Littleberry has a Visitor 


81 


heered about this hyar reeward I ’lowed to tell what I 
knowed efsobe I were paid fur hit. And hyar I be.” 

“ And ye were willin’ to let an innercent man be 
hung unless ye got money for tellin’ what ye knowed, 
eh! Well I’m a tellin’ ye that ye are plumb as mean 
as Jake Branson hisself, and ef ye don’t remember 
what I said he were I’ll jest repeat hit, and ye kin stick 
hit onto yer own hide fur a mustard plaster! But 
come along, and I’ll take ye to them that has the 
handling of this hyar reeward. But don’t ask me to 
say ary ’nother word to ye, for I swear I cain’t do yer 
case jestice.” 

So saying the indignant little man threw his apron 
into a corner, pulled on his hat and led the way to 
Colonel Barton’s office, while Peter Walton shuffled 
along behind him, casting shifty glances to right and 
left as he followed. 

Colonel Barton was deep in his final preparation for 
Manning’s defence. His office floor was a litter of 
court reports, statutes of Missouri, half burned cigars, 
and broken corn cob pipes. His hat hung on the open 
door of the rusty stove; his coat lay in the wood box; 
and his vest adorned the box of saw dust that did duty 
as a cuspidor. Thus dis-arrayed for the fray, the old 
lawyer was shaping his presentation of the case. As 
his right hand drove the pen at lightning speed across 
and across the paper, the spread digits of his left passed 
almost as steadily upward through his long black hair, 
until it stood up “ like quills upon the fretful porcu¬ 
pine.” 


82 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ What in thunderation you coming in here for just 
now, you little dried up mummy of a rebel you ? ” 
he shouted as Uncle Littleberry entered. “Couldn’t 
find ary stick of stove wood to prop again the door or 
I’d a’had ye shut out.” 

“ Now then Colonel,” piped Uncle Littleberry, 
“ jest hold yer tater won’t ye? I’ve brung ye some¬ 
thin’ that maybeso’ll holp that pore schoolmaster 
feller a heap better’n them thar patridge tracks 
ye’re a’makin’ on that paper.” 

“ What’s that? ” cried the Colonel, interested in an 
instant, “ What’s that? Got some proof of something? 
Out with it then or I’ll break ye plumb in two! ” 

“ Well,” drawled the old fellow in his most deliber¬ 
ate squeak, “ Fust off take a sheet of paper and dror 
up a contrack fur this hyar critter to sign. Dror hit 
like I tells ye, and hev him sign hit, and then maybeso 
ye’ll hear somethin’! ” 

And the Colonel, fretting and fuming and swearing, 
at last seized his pen and wrote as follows at Uncle 
Littleberry’s dictation. “ Knowin’ that I are powful 
ornery, and that unless I were tied hand and foot I 
wouldn’t never stand hitched to no agreement ever I 
made, I hereby agrees that one half of any reeward 
a’comin’ to me for informin’ on Jake Branson, is to be 
paid to Littleberry Smallwood. So help me God, 
Amen.” 

Then when this remarkable document had been duly 
signed by Peter Walton, witnessed by the Colonel, and 
carefully folded away in an immense leather wallet, 


Uncle Littleberry has a Visitor 


83 


and returned to the old shoemaker’s hip pocket, the 
story of Branson’s attempt to borrow money from 
Walton was told. Under the old lawyer’s quick fire of 
questions the witness told it in much greater detail 
than before. Barton was especially pleased that he 
had got hold of the fellow before the prosecution, for 
well he knew that in case any of the lawyers for the 
state had laid hands upon Walton, neither witness or 
evidence would have been forthcoming on the day of 
trial. 

So the Colonel carefully reduced the story to writ¬ 
ing, had Peter Walton sign it, and in his capacity of 
Notary Public took his oath to it. More than that he 
compelled the reluctant Walton to go with him before 
the Clerk of the Circuit Court, and had a subpoena 
served upon him as a witness for the defence. Then 
he told Walton and Uncle Littleberry that they could 
go. 

“ But how about that thar reeward? ” cried Uncle 
Littleberry and Peter Walton in the same breath. 
“ The reward,” said Barton, “ is for evidence to prove 
the innocence of Norman Manning. This evidence 
will help I hope and believe, but Lord only knows what 
the jury will do with it, or how bad the prosecution 
will tangle you up in it Walton. But after all I feel 
under obligation enough to you both to give you a 
five dollar bill apiece out of my own pocket. Later I’ll 
do all I can for you, if this evidence helps as much as I 
hope it will. Only remember both of you: Not one 
whisper of this must get out until you, Walton tell it 


84 


A Drama of the Hills 


on the witness stand. Understand now, Fll put you 
both behind the bars if you leak one single word of 
this.” 

And with that the pair were perforce satisfied. 
Uncle Littleberry especially chuckling to himself 
squeakily over the best pay for a day’s work that he 
had received in ten years. As for the Colonel he 
rushed back to his office, flung his hat into the farthest 
corner, and danced a combination of a highland fling 
and a plantation hoe down. For remember, this evi¬ 
dence, inconclusive as it was, was the first atom of 
anything which had come to him, on which to base a 
reasonable theory that any other hand than that of 
Norman Manning had dealt James Walton his death 
blow. 

“ Good God,” cried the Colonel, out of breath with 
his joyful exertions, “ I’d give half I’m worth now to 
lay hands on that infernal scoundrel of a Jake Branson. 
If I could get him on the witness stand ten minutes I’d 
make him put the noose around his own neck! ” 

But, as we know, Branson was hundreds of miles 
away, and hidden as effectually as if indeed the earth 
had opened and swallowed him up. 


CHAPTER . 

The Day of Trial 

And now came the fateful day when Norman 
Manning’s life was to be put into the balance against 
the tangle of circumstantial evidence which had 
involved him. When every possible effort would be 
made by the regular prosecutor of the county, assisted 
by the talent and experience of the shrewdest criminal 
lawyer of the St. Louis bar, to beat down all attempts 
of the defence, and send the young man to a felon’s 
death and a dishonored grave. 

The docket of the Lafleet Circuit Court was short 
at that term, as it usually was, and Manning’^ trial, 
by far the most important had been placed on the first 
day of the session. As early as the morning of the 
Saturday before the day of the opening of the session, 
the people began flocking into the county seat, to 
make sure of missing none of the exciting details of 
the trial and its preliminaries. They came in farm 
wagons; upon the heavy saw mill logging trucks; in 
ox carts; on horseback and on foot, in seemingly end¬ 
less procession upon every road leading to the town, 
until it seemed as if the surrounding country must be 
depopulated. 


86 


A Drama of the Hills 


Why is it that nothing so interests the human animal 
as some function which puts to hazard the life of a 
man? Why is it that peaceable, kind hearted men, 
yes and gentle, loving women, had rather sit in an 
uncomfortable court room, and listen to a group of 
shrewd lawyers juggle words, with a man’s life as the 
stake, than to listen to the most heavenly music, or the 
most masterly eloquence? 

So they poured into Labrador, all day Saturday, 
and late into that night. Sunday saw no slackening in 
the tide, and the comment of one old citizen was 
certainly justified: “ Looks like circus day and camp 
meetin’ jined hands fur this show! ” Over and over 
again were repeated the few grewsome details of the 
murder. And each successive group, listening with 
gaping mouths had heard every one of those details a 
thousand times already, and for months had helped to 
retail them at every possible opportunity; and yet 
each and all listened to the worn out tale again, and 
with never failing interest, and ever recurrent thrills 
of horror. 

Monday morning dawned at last, and the deputy 
sheriff rendered unconscious tribute to the procedure 
of the days of William the Conqueror, as he cried: 
“ Oh yes! Oh yes! the honorable Circuit Court of 
Lafleet County is now open for the trial of all matters 
to come before it for adjudication.” 

And at the word a thousand people tried to force 
their way into a room built to accommodate two 
hundred and fifty, and which already held five hundred 


The Day of Trial 


87 


sweltering bodies. And in five minutes not an inch 
of vacant space remained between the four walls. 

Mary Morton had lingered at the wicket that 
morning longer than was her wont. She had prepared 
a dainty breakfast for Manning, and he, poor boy, 
had striven to show his appreciation of her thought¬ 
fulness by a show of appetite, but he found it a hope¬ 
less task, and at last he had to say: “ It’s no use 
Mary; I couldn’t take another swallow if my life 
depended upon it.” For a moment then the tears 
welled up in the great gray eyes, but only for a mo¬ 
ment. Then looking into his troubled face she forced 
a smile, like a ray of sunlight through falling rain 
drops, and said: 

“ What a little goose I am! crying because you are 
to be tried, when I ought to be glad. Before night 
you will be clear of the whole hateful thing, and be a 
free man again.” 

“ There! ” said Norman, “ that’s better; it puts 
new hope into me.” And as he spoke his whole soul 
shone in his eyes. “ Indeed I believe you are right, and 
that this is my last day in prison.” 

“ Don’t forget,” she answered, “ that there will be 
one poor little girl on her knees, praying the dear God 
to help you, every minute while you are in there 
fighting for your life. Now I must go for father will 
be here in a few minutes to take you to the court 
room.” And then she reached her hand through the 
wicket and laid it in his. That moment there came to 
Norman Manning the strongest temptation yet. 


88 


A Drama of the Hills 


The temptation to draw the sweet tear-damp face 
close enough for him to press his lips to hers, and tell 
her of his love. But he braced himself against the 
thought as taking an unfair advantage of her kind¬ 
ness, and bending his head kissed her hand, and said: 

“ Come what may Mary, I thank God for your 
trust, and the brave help you have given me all these 
months in this cell.” And then she left him. 

In a few minutes he heard the footstep of the sheriff, 
and the cell door swung open. “ Well Norman,” he 
cried, “ time’s come to face the music. I don’t need 
to tell you to keep your nerve. It’s my ’pinion ye are 
to come clear the first time trying. But if ye don’t, 
and have the bad luck to lose on the first trial, remem¬ 
ber thar’s new trials, and appeals, and injunctions, 
and Lord knows what all, before ye are whipped.” 

Manning was grateful to the honest fellow for his 
evidently artificial cheerfulness, and thanked him 
heartily. Then Morton said: “ Lookee hyar, Nor¬ 
man, I never heered tell of taking a prisoner into court 
to be tried for murder without him a’havin’ the 
bracelets onto him. But if ye’ll give me your word 
that ye won’t try to git away, no matter what hap¬ 
pens, why I’ll resk takin’ ye in as ye are.” 

More than any other one thing Manning had 
dreaded standing before the multitude with the 
badges of crime upon his wrists, and he gave his word 
most heartily and thankfully. So Morton and his 
prisoner marched out into the street, and into* the 
sweet morning air; pushed their way through the 


The Day of Trial 


89 


gaping, struggling crowds, climbed the rickety stairs 
at the rear of the court house, and entered at the 
Judge’s private door into the crowded room. 

A venire of sixty men had been summoned by the 
sheriff, as directed by the court, and most of them 
answered to their names as the clerk called the roll. 
From these sixty were to be chosen the twelve who 
were to decide Manning’s fate. Questioned first by 
the state’s representatives, and then by Colonel 
Barton for the defence, one and another of the panel 
dropped out, and the twelve chairs in the jury box 
filled but slowly. Thus it was mid day before the 
number was complete, and duly sworn to try the case, 
“ According to the law and evidence, and a true ver¬ 
dict render, without fear or favor.” 

It was after one in the afternoon before the trial 
actually began, but the sweaty uncomfortable throng 
had held their places in the court room through the 
hour’s intermission, and listened open-mouthed to the 
first words of the trial. 

First the State introduced the coroner, who read his 
official report of the inquest held over the dead body 
of James Walton, and the verdict of his jury, laying 
the charge of murder against the prisoner at the bar. 
Then John Hampton, and the men summoned from 
his house by Manning on the day of the murder, told 
of that hurried summons, and of following Manning 
to the spot where Walton’s dead body lay in the 
snow. The constable told of his examination of the 
surroundings; of finding Manning’s axe with blood 


90 


A Drama of the Hills 


upon it lying at the dead man’s side, and how, 
his suspicions thus aroused he thought it his 
duty to arrest Manning, and had done so upon 
the spot. 

So little by little every circumstance of that day 
was brought plainly to light. The attempted lynch¬ 
ing; the timely arrival of the sheriff and the other 
officers; the exhibit of Manning’s axe by John Hamp¬ 
ton on his cross examination by Colonel Barton, 
showing blood on but one side of the blade. Each 
and every happening of that fatal day was brought 
out . in the minutest detaiL For. all these witnesses, 
excepting only John Hampton, Colonel Barton had 
but a short and perfunctory cross examination. As 
he well knew they testified only to known facts, and 
with the exception of the coroner’s report did not 
accuse Manning with the crime. 

Then the state announced that for the present they 
would call no further witnesses, and the defence took 
up the struggle. The first witness called by Barton 
was the defendant. Calmly as if telling of something 
wholly foreign to himself, Manning gave the history of 
his life, down to the morning of that fatal seventh of 
January. Then, with the utmost particularity he 
told of his every action; his route from the house to 
the hill, where he was to work; the taking of a shorter 
route when on his way home for dinner; his discovery 
of the dead man, and his efforts which quickly proved 
to him that Walton was indeed beyond help; his 
flight to the house to give the alarm, and from that 


The Day of Trial 


91 


point on, testimony that confirmed the state’s wit¬ 
nesses at every particular. 

Without asking his client a single question Colonel 
Barton turned him over to the state. Then for a long 
hour the great criminal lawyer from St. Louis, made 
use of every trick and artifice, learned from a score of 
years’ practice at the bar of that great city, to confuse 
and tangle the young man; to make him contradict 
himself and cross his statements to his own undoing. 
But unsophisticated innocence proved stronger than 
the unscrupulous skill employed against it, and at 
length the lawyer forbore further questions, and 
Manning again took his seat at his counsel’s side. 

Then Colonel Barton said: “ Call Littleberry 
Smallwood.” This was a distinct surprise to prosecu¬ 
tion and audience alike for the terror of the Colonel’s 
wrath had worked a miracle, and for the only time 
in a long life Uncle Littleberry had kept a secret, even 
from Aunt Mealie herself! “ What is your name? ” 
asked the Colonel, after the usual custom on such 
occasions. 

“Now Colonel ” replied the little man, “ what’s 
the use of you axin’ me that thar? You knows my 
name all right! ” 

“ Witness,” commanded the court, “ answer the 
question without delay.” 

“ Why yes Jedge, ef ye say so, but its all durn 
nonsense. Name’s Littleberry Smallwood, Esquare; 
Confederit soldier and unreconstructed rebel! ” 

One or two more preliminary questions and then 


92 A Drama of the Hills 

the Colonel said: “ Do you know a man named Jacob 
Branson? ” 

u Know him!” cried the witness, “ Know him! 
well I should say I did. Jist as ornery, wuthles no 
’count cuss as ever God a’mighty wrope up in that 
much hide! Beat me outten four bits onst, fur me 
a’puttin’ on a pair of half soles fur him! Durn him!” 

Whereat there was much laughter in the room, and 
the Judge pounded upon his desk and said 
sternly: 

“ Witness you must speak more respectfully. 
Remember this is a court of justice, and you are 
required to show proper respect for the place.” 

“ Well Jedge, I do reckin’ ye’er plumb right. It 
do sound sorter unrespectful to say God a’mighty 
ever had ary thing to do with a’making no sech a low 
down feller as Jake Branson. Hit were the devil 
hisself done that job shore, and he done a good ’un 
too he did.” 

“ Silence sir! ” thundered the Judge. “ I don’t 
believe you are half as big a fool as you pretend. 
Now sir, if I hear another trifling word from you I’ll 
fine you twenty dollars for contempt of court, and 
send you to jail for three months besides! ” 

And at that old Littleberry, awed for once in his 
life, listened with a pale face to the questions asked, 
and answered them to the best of his ability. All 
that was attempted to be proven by him was that 
Branson was a man of violent temper, and unscrupu¬ 
lous in attaining his ends. Then the surprise of the day 


The Day of Trial 


93 


was sprung and the sheriff was asked to call Peter 
Walton. Men stood on tip toe now, and as Walton 
took the witness chair the room was silent as the 
grave. 

Carefully, and under the lead of Colonel Barton the 
witness told his story. How Branson had related the 
dire need he was in for money; how he, Walton, had 
demanded that James Walton’s name be added to the 
note as security; of Branson’s departure to get that 
signature, and of his failure to return or send any word 
of explanation. When the state took the witness 
Colonel Barton was delighted to note that the fellow’s 
streak of knavish shrewdness rendered it impossible 
for the lawyers to confuse him in the least, and he 
resumed his seat after half an hour’s grilling, with his 
story in no wise shaken. 

Then John Hampton was recalled, together with 
Tom Leathers and several of the Waltons themselves: 
these latter with every manifestation of reluctance. 
Under Barton’s questions these witnesses told of 
Branson’s peculiar actions at his uncle’s home on the 
night following the murder. They told of his insult 
to John Hampton, and of his sudden flight when 
asked by that veteran, if he would join him in search¬ 
ing out the murderer of James Walton. Following 
this the Colonel read the mass of sworn testimony 
from abroad relative to the past life and reputation of 
the prisoner. And when the old lawyer took his seat 
the universal feeling in the room was that he had won 
an acquittal. 


94 


A Drama of the Hills 


By this time the afternoon was drawing to a close, 
and a recess was taken that the lawyers might prepare 
the instructions for their respective sides, these to be 
first approved by the judge, and then given to the 
jury. Meanwhile the prisoner was returned to his 
cell to await the reopening of court in the evening. 
As he lay upon his cot, taking this brief respite from 
the fatigue of the day, the wicket clicked once more, 
and springing to his feet he found himself again face 
to face with his good angel. 

“ Father says that you made a splendid witness, 
Mr. Manning. And he believes that the jury will 
clear you.” 

“ Well that’s good news,” answered Norman, 
“ and I hope that he is right. Did he tell you of 
Uncle Littleberry’s testimony? ” And Mary saying 
that she had not heard of it, Manning proceeded to 
relate it in his best manner, and they both laughed 
over it until the tears stood in their eyes. “ A merry 
heart doeth good like a medicine,” said the wise man 
of old, and that laugh sent Manning back into the 
court room smiling and ready to face whatever was in 
store for him, with firmness and courage. 

Until late that night the lawyers addressed the 
jury. The crowd in the court room, and a far larger 
crowd under the windows outside listened in perfect 
silence. The Prosecuting Attorney spoke first; and 
spoke earnestly and solemnly as befitted a man who 
believed in the prisoner’s guilt. But he spoke not a 
word of the abuse and vituperation that a certain 


The Bay of Trial 95 

type of so-called lawyer always hurls at a man accused 
of a crime. 

Then Colonel Barton stood before the jury, and no 
man who heard him on that memorable night ever 
forgot that address. The quaint, stooped, almost 
uncouth form, rose upright before them. The load 
of the years seemed to drop from his shoulders, and 
his voice rang with the very fires of youth; while all 
the wisdom of his years mingled in the words that 
poured from his lips. For an hour and a half that 
voice swept on in a veritable torrent of burning elo¬ 
quence. He told of the boy standing doubly orphaned 
at the grave where father and mother slept side by 
side. He told of the little lad left thus without a 
known relative on earth, and without a dollar of 
money to provide for his childish needs. 

He appealed to the jury, some of whom as he knew, 
had fought their own way from an orphaned child¬ 
hood, to honorable manhood, he called on these 
to ask themselves if it was possible that a boy who 
could come to his young manhood as this boy had, 
without a stain upon his record, could be guilty of a 
cold blooded, brutal and needless crime. He told the 
whole story up to that moment, and he told it with an 
earnestness and pathos that brought tears to many a 
bronzed cheek. Then he turned to the testimony 
wdiich indicated that for another man, Jacob Branson, 
there was a motive which explained the murder. He 
sketched in darkest colors the cool-blooded selfishness 
of the man; the heartless and unscrupulous methods 


96 


A Drama of the Hills 


which he had always followed in accumulating money. 
He told of his frantic search for the money of which 
he stood in such desperate need on the day of the 
murder, and the usurious interest which he agreed to 
pay his cousin for that money, thus emphasizing 
that need. 

Then he pictured a scene in that lonely valley, 
with Branson and his uncle as the actors. And 
although the old lawyer drew wholly upon his imagina¬ 
tion for the description, we know that he unwittingly 
drew it true to the actual facts. And then he closed 
with an appeal to the jury, all of whom he knew to be 
fathers, to imagine their own boys in the place of this 
prisoner, alone, a stranger, unfriended and poor; 
and to deal with Norman Manning as they would 
wish their own flesh and blood to be dealt with after 
they themselves should be sleeping in their graves. 
As the Colonel’s voice ceased the audience breathed 
a long sigh, as of one person except for its volume, 
and then there was perfect silence in the room. If 
the vote could have been taken thep there is small 
doubt that the verdict would have been acquittal 
without the jury leaving the box. 

But the law of the land gives to the prosecution the 
closing argument, and now the great advocate from 
the city rose and began his speech. Slowly and calmly 
at first, his voice hardly above the tones of ordinary 
conversation, he took up in simple phrase, yet in the 
language of a trained and polished orator, the circum¬ 
stances of the case. With the hand of a master he 


The Day of Trial 


97 


played upon the minds and feelings of that jury. 
Deliberately he forged link by link the chain of his 
argument, each sentence a gem, yet as easily under¬ 
stood as the prattle of a child. 

Gradually the tide rose to a rushing stream, and 
sarcasm, pathos, ridicule, denunciation, poured from 
his lips in sentences that burned like the electric flame. 
And as that torrent swept on it carried with it those 
who heard. Reason, conviction, sympathy, all were 
overwhelmed, and when the magnificent voice ended 
in a peroration calling for justice for the innocent, 
gentle old man, stricken down by a cruel blow, his 
tongue silent forever and unable to plead his own 
cause, the tide of feeling which had flowed so strongly 
in Manning’s favor, had turned and flowed even still 
more strongly against him. 

Ah the marvel of true eloquence! It is somewhat 
the fashion in these latter days and among certain 
shallow minds, to deride it as old fashioned and out of 
date. But when the occasion and the man fit per¬ 
fectly together there is no gift bestowed on humanity 
that draws so near the divine power as this. 

By this time it was nearly midnight, and the sheriff 
was directed to take charge of the jury, and conduct 
them to their room to consider of their verdict. Then 
the court was adjourned until nine o’clock the next 
morning. 


CHAPTER XI 

A Verdict and a Revelation 

All that endless night Norman Manning tossed 
upon his sleepless pallet. Slumber refused to visit his 
eyes, and only his iron will enabled him to retain even 
a semblance of composure. But day dawned at last, 
as it ever has all the untold ages of this old world, 
careless alike whether it is to bring life or death, joy 
or sorrow, in its train. Again Manning drew hope and 
courage from his morning’s chat with Mary Morton. 
Poor girl, her voice was as cheerful, and her smile 
as bright as ever, but the dark circles under her eyes 
bore proof that for her, too, the hours of darkness 
had been hours of ceaseless vigil and heart-breaking 
anxiety. 

Then once more the sheriff escorted his prisoner 
to the crowded court room, where the throng had 
again gathered with unabated interest, to await the 
verdict. But hour succeeded hour and no sound 
came from behind the closed door where the twelve 
men held their fateful council. Hardest, most nerve 
racking of all that horrible time, were those hours to 
poor Manning. To his dying day will the memory 
haunt him like some hideous nightmare. And then 
when the hands of the clock pointed to eleven, and it 
seemed to the prisoner that death itself would be 


A Verdict and a Revelation 


99 


preferable to further suspense, the latch of the jury- 
room door clicked and the twelve men filed solemnly 
in and took their places in the box. 

“ Mr. Foreman,” said the Judge, “ have you arrived 
at a verdict?” “ We have your honor,” was the reply, 
and the foreman handed the clerk of the court a 
folded paper. That official then rose amid a dead 
silence and read: “ We the jury find the prisoner at 
the bar guilty, and assess his punishment at death.” 

The bolt had fallen at last, and Norman Manning 
stood indeed within the creeping shadow of the gal¬ 
lows. Instantly an excited whisper ran through the 
crowd, like a sudden breeze in a forest. “ Order in the 
court! ” cried the sheriff, and then, as if aroused from 
a stupor Colonel Barton sprang to his feet and de¬ 
manded that the jury be polled. This was done, and 
every man of the twelve declared his verdict to be 
“ Guilty.” 

Meanwhile Manning sat with clenched hands and 
set teeth, and a face as pale as the dead, holding him¬ 
self from complete collapse simply by his magnificent 
will power. It seemed to him hours before he heard 
the voice of Colonel Barton addressing the court, and 
announcing his wish to move for a new trial. The 
Judge listened to this and set the next Friday as the 
time when the motion could be argued before him. 
Then, as in a dream, Manning heard the Prosecuting 
Attorney moving the court that “ Sentence be now 
pronounced upon the prisoner at the bar, in accord¬ 
ance with the verdict rendered by the jury.” And 


100 


A Drama of the Hills 


at the words he heard the voice of the Judge directing 
him to stand up to receive sentence. 

As he rose to his feet the palsy which had seemed to 
smite him at the dread announcement of the verdict 
passed from him, and with head held high, and with 
shining eyes and flushed cheeks he stood with folded 
arms facing the judge. 

“ Prisoner at the bar,” said the solemn voice, “ have 
you anything to say why the sentence of death should 
not now be pronounced upon you? ” Clearly as a 
bell then Manning spoke. Fearlessly he looked the 
judge in the face, and without an atom of bravado he 
replied: “ Your Honor, I can only say that I have no 
complaint to make regarding the situation in which I 
am placed. I have been accorded all rights that I 
had any title to claim. The Court and the court 
officials have treated me with all fairness and courtesy; 
the witnesses for the state have told only the exact 
truth. The arguments against me by the attorneys 
for the prosecution have not assailed my character, 
or hurled abuse at me. For all these things I want 
here and now to thank you and all those whom I have 
mentioned. I doubt not that if I were a member of 
yonder jury, and another stood here in my place, 
my verdict would have been as that which has just 
been rendered. 

“ But your Honor, and Gentlemen of the jury,” 
and his voice rang trumpet toned now, “ as I hope for 
mercy when I stand before the throne of God; as I 
hope for entrance into life eternal; by everything 


A Verdict and a Revelation 


101 


which I hold dear and sacred, I am absolutely inno¬ 
cent of the death of James Walton, and this I swear 
so help me God! ” 

The thronged room was so still that the ticking of 
the clock upon the wall sounded like the blows upon 
an anvil, and the chirping of the sparrows in the trees 
outside the windows seemed the voice of a multitude. 
Then the judge spoke again: 

“ Prisoner, no one could look upon you and listen 
to the vehement words you have uttered, without 
being prejudiced in your favor. You are a young man 
in the morning of your days, and equipped by your 
training for a life of usefulness. The son of a brave 
soldier who fell in defence of his country; all these 
things combine to make the duty now devolving upon 
me the most distasteful and sorrowful of my life. 
But I am here as a judge, not as a man, and I am under 
my official oath to enforce the laws of Missouri as 
they stand upon the statute book, and to enforce 
them without fear or favor. 

“ Such being the case I have no choice under the 
verdict rendered by the jury, and it is now my solemn 
duty to direct the sheriff of Lafleet County to return 
you to your prison cell, there to be confined until 
Friday the twentieth day of the coming June. And 
that on that day he shall convey you to some appro¬ 
priate place, and between the hours of nine in the 
forenoon and twelve noon of that day, he shall hang 
you by the neck until you are dead. And may a just 
God have mercy upon your soul.” 


102 


A Drama of the Hills 


For a few moments there was perfect silence in the 
room except where, here and there, a woman could be 
heard softly sobbing, or some one drew a long sigh. 
Then the audience rose to their feet and pressed for 
the outlets. 

The dread news spread through the crowd outside, 
and from one and another of those who so earnestly 
believed in Manning’s guilt there rose that ecstatic 
shriek, or “ yell ” that will always sound in times of 
excitement wherever the hot southern blood flows in 
American veins, even as it rang on every battlefield 
of the Civil War. But as a rule the crowd received the 
verdict and sentence calmly. For many of those who 
were most firmly of the opinion that he was guilty 
had been touched by Manning’s address to the judge, 
and by that official’s evident sympathy, even as he 
pronounced sentence upon him. 

Sheriff Morton had heard the verdict and sentence 
with utter horror. During the months that Manning 
had been in his charge he had grown more intimate 
with him than with any other held in the old jail 
during his incumbency. And as he thus learned to 
know the young fellow, each day had increased his 
liking, and more firmly persuaded him of his inno¬ 
cence. That now he was ordered to hold him in close 
confinement for six short weeks and then to execute 
upon him the utmost sentence of the law, brought his 
whole soul up in vigorous protest and dismay. 

He knew enough of criminal law too, to feel con¬ 
vinced that the short trial had developed few if any 


A Verdict and a Revelation 


103 


points on which to base a demand for a new trial. 
The evidence had been so direct and decisive. Indeed 
Manning’s own testimony tallied so exactly with that 
of the state witnesses that it had actually increased 
the power of the circumstantial proof of the prisoner’s 
guilt. Knowing all this Morton could but fear the 
worst, and his honest heart was heavy at the pros¬ 
pect. 

But he laid his hand upon Manning’s shoulder, and 
said as cheerfully as possible: “Remember what I 
said this morning don’t ye Norman? The game ain’t 
nowheres nigh played out yet. The old Colonel has 
a dozen cards up his sleeve that’ll make these fellers 
look mighty cheap yet. So come along, jest keep a 
stiff upper lip like you have done all the time. You’ll 
win out yet, and I’m a’tellin’ ye so.” 

But the sheriff did not maintain his cheerful tone 
after he had placed Manning in the cell, and made his 
way to his own apartments. On the contrary he 
threw himself on the lounge with a groan, and covered 
his face with his hands. He did not know that Mary 
was within hearing but such was the case, and she 
flew to him wide eyed with horror and with bloodless 
cheeks. 

“ What is it? ” she cried, “ Tell me Daddy what is 
it? ” “ Oh Honey,” groaned the sheriff, “ hit’s jest 

too bad to tell. That cussed fool jury went and 
brought the boy in guilty, and he’s sentenced to hang 
in six weeks! ” 

Then hearing no sound Morton looked up, and by 


104 


A Drama of the Hills 


springing to his feet was barely in time to catch his 
daughter as she fell unconscious into his arms. 

“ My God! ” he cried, “ what’s this mean? I had 
no idee poor little girlie would care so much.” And 
he hastened to lay the unconscious form upon the 
lounge, sprinkled water in her face, and called franti¬ 
cally for help, which came not. 

Soon the great gray eyes opened and the blood 
flowed back into her cheeks. For a few moments she 
was dazed, but with returning strength the reason for 
her fainting flashed upon her. Then she threw her 
arms around her Father’s neck as he knelt on the floor 
at her side, and laying her head upon his shoulder 
sobbed so violently that the good man was sorely 
perplexed, both as to what he should do, and as to the 
cause of such overpowering emotion. 

“ There now Honey,” he murmured as he had 
many times comforted her in some childish sorrow, 
“ There now little girlie don’t cry no more Dearie. 
Daddy don’t believe his little woman is more than 
half well, that’s what. Now then don’t cry no more.” 

But it was long minutes before Mary was able to 
control the violence of her grief, and then she clung 
to her Father still more; pressed her fair head even 
more fondly upon his shoulder and said: 

“ Oh dear old Daddy, don’t you know? Don’t you 
know? I love him Daddy; oh I LOVE him so! and 
if he dies I’ll die too! ” 

Poor Morton; like many another father he had 
thought ever of his daughter as his “little girl”; 


A Verdict and a Revelation 


105 


and now in an instant lo! she had become a woman, 
with a woman’s sorrows to bear. 

“ Why Honey ” he whispered, “ I never thought of 
that. Ought to have known too, such a fine up¬ 
standing young feller as him. But he shouldn’t have 
stole my girlie’s heart without asking of me first.” 

“ Oh Daddy,” then cried Mary, “ he never said a 
word to me about love. Indeed it was only when you 
told me so suddenly of his sentence just now that I 
knew myself how I loved him.” 

“ There then,” said Morton, “ that’s more like the 
honest straight forward boy I took him to be. But 
oh my Dearie,” and here the fearful perplexities of his 
position began to take shape in his mind, “ what is to 
be done? Colonel Barton is to try for a new trial, 
come a’Friday, but they’ll fight it hard, and I don’t 
dare to hope he’ll get it. Then I suppose he’ll try for 
an appeal to the Supreme Court, but where’s the 
money coming from to pay all the bills? It’s pretty 
much broke old John Hampton and all the rest of 
Manning’s friends already.” 

But now that she knew her own heart, and had 
confided her secret to her father and found him worthy 
of the trust, Mary’s natural courage began to assert 
itself. 

“ Why Daddy if the Colonel gets an appeal to the 
Supreme Court it will take two years to get a decision, 
won’t it? I’ve heard you say something like that, 
haven’t I? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the sheriff, “ Unless they get it 


106 


A Drama of the Hills 


advanced on the docket, and it’s safe to bet they’ll 
try. Nothing so important as to get to hang some 
poor devil! ” 

But Mary refused to listen to any further pessimis¬ 
tic forebodings. “ Why Daddy Morton,” she cried, 
“ what ails you? Live up to the gospel you have 
preached to me all my life: 1 While there’s life there’s 
hope ‘ Never say die,’ and a dozen others.” 

And then the smile faded from her face and she 
said: “ Dear old Daddy we are forgetting that he is 
down there in his cell all alone. Maybe he thinks we 
have deserted him in his need! Daddy — Daddy — 
I want him to know! He won’t say a word for him¬ 
self — would it be wrong if I let him know — how —I 
— love — him! ” 

“ Now daughter,” said the sheriff, and he held his 
heart’s dearest in his strong arms then, “ I love my 
little girl too well to want to keep her to myself always. 
Such love as came to your mother and me; such love 
as I see now a’shining in your eyes, is the best thing 
God has for folks in this world I’m a’thinking, and 
nothing to be ashamed of. So I’ll jest say this: Go 
and talk with the brave boy Honey, and tell him 
whatever your heart says tell. And so God bless my 
dearie.” 

But after Mary had kissed her Father again and 
again, and had gone down the stairs on her way to the 
cells, the sheriff still stood where she had left him. 
Grief, doubt* and perplexity thronged in upon him; 
and brave fighter as he had always been in all his life 


A Verdict and a Revelation 


107 


battles, he could see no hope of saving Manning. 
And he knew too that without saving Manning’s life, 
the life of his daughter also would exist, if it existed 
at all, but as a blighted and broken flower. 


CHAPTER XII 

In Which Love Laughs at Locksmiths 

Along the gloomy corridor came Mary, and stopped 
before the door of cell Number 2. With her hand upon 
the familiar catch she hesitated for a moment, while 
the red blood dyed her cheeks. What if she was 
mistaken and Norman did not feel toward her as she 
felt toward him? Would he think her unmaidenly if 
she let him see into her heart? Would it not be better 
to let Daddy tell him first? And then, as she framed 
these dilatory questions in her mind, her hand played 
traitor against any further delay, and the little wicket 
opened as if of its own volition. 

Looking in she saw Norman Manning lying upon 
his prison cot with his face buried in his folded arms. 
Motionless as the very dead he lay. She spoke his 
name very softly, but he, poor fellow, was sunk so deep 
in the black pit of despair that not even that dear 
voice was sufficient to rouse him. Then into the 
girl’s mind there came a paralysing thought; what if 
the grief and horror of the situation had broken his 
strong heart? What if he was lying there before her 
dead! 

Like lightning then her fingers were busy with the 
key; the bolt flew back, the door swung open, and she 
sprung to his side. She knelt upon the hard floor, her 


In Which Love Laughs at Locksmiths 109 

arms encircled his neck and drew his dear head to rest 
against her heart. 

“ Oh my darling,” she whispered, all heedless now 
of fear lest he should think her unmaidenly, “ did 
you think I didn’t care? Did you think I had deserted 
you! that I had failed you in your time of need! ” 

And Norman Manning, lifted in an instant from 
very Hell to very Heaven, could only look up to those 
glorious eyes and gaze speechless into their clear gray 
depths, lest a word or a motion should waken him and 
shatter the blissful dream. 

But those dear arms beneath his head; those sweet 
lips whispering love names; these were no part of a 
dream, but perfect love, and perfect bliss in very deed. 
Forgetting that his life had been declared forfeit to 
the law; forgetting all the long drawn out horrors of 
the past months; forgetting all of heaven or earth 
except that to him had come his heart’s dearest, 
strongest, sweetest desire, he paid back love name for 
love name; caress for caress; heart beat for heart 
beat; and as each heard and understood with love 
sharpened faculties, the depth, and height, and 
breadth of this great joy that had crowned their lives, 
trouble, injustice, fear, yea the looming shadow of 
the gallows itself, became as nothing. And in their 
stead dawned hope, faith, courage, and the sure 
knowledge that some way, some how, God would open 
the prison doors and lead them forth to tread Life’s 
pleasant ways together. 

Then as they still talked softly to each other, those 


110 


A Drama of the Hills 


trifling, sacred, foolish, holy nothings that have been 
the burden of true love’s conversation ever since Adam 
wooed Eve in Paradise, they heard something sur¬ 
prisingly like a chuckle, and as they looked up there 
stood the sheriff in the door! 

“ Well,” he said in affected anger, “ Looks like to 
me daughter you’re feelin’ a heap better’n you was a 
little bit ago! ” 

And Mary with her face flaming, and her adorable 
curly hair now escaped from the jealous guardian¬ 
ship of the ribbon and dancing in the afternoon sun¬ 
light at its freedom, sprang to her feet and into her 
father’s arms at one and the same movement. 

“ Oh you dear, dear, dear, old Daddy,” she cried, 
punctuating her speech with a kiss after each repeti¬ 
tion of the word “ Dear,” “ Ain’t you ashamed to 
steal up that way? Here Daddy,” she said, sobered 
in an instant, “ I never told Norman that you knew. 
Now you tell him what you think.” 

“Well my boy,” then said the sheriff, “ this is a 
queer place, and a strange time for a man to find a 
wife, or a girl to find a husband. I would have held 
things back a little if I had knowed what was a’brew- 
ing, but it’s too late now to do anything except to say 
that Mary’s choice is my choice. Yes and would 
have be’n if I had had the picking of the man myself; 
and when you get out of here I’ll give my consent with 
all my heart.” And the two men grasped hands with 
that grip which tightens the very heart strings, and 
binds soul to soul forever. 


In Which Love Laughs at Locksmiths 111 

The session of the court on Friday morning was of 
but brief duration. But it was sufficiently long to dash 
the hopes of Barton and of Manning himself that the 
judge would grant a new trial. The judge was a man 
of spotless integrity; an upright and incorruptible 
magistrate, but withal somewhat narrow and inclined 
to stickle for all the mint, anise and cumin of judicial 
procedure. He had always forced the fulfillment in 
every particular, least as well as greatest, of all legal 
details in the presentation of cases before him. The 
lack of the most trivial point in a petition had always 
been sufficient to cause him to reject it instantly. 

Colonel Barton made a gallant fight. He presented 
a dozen or more exceptions to rulings and decisions 
in the trial. He laid great emphasis on the probability 
of finding more evidence to bring the crime home to 
Jacob Branson. And all only to have the judge sweep 
all aside as irrelevant, unimportant and trivial. Thus 
in less than an hour the old war horse found his peti¬ 
tion denied, and his client again remanded to his cell 
to await execution. Then he made due application 
for an appeal to the Supreme Court of the state, and 
when such appeal was granted conditioned upon filing 
the necessary cost bond, the old Colonel stormed out of 
the court house, breathing out threatening and 
slaughter against judge, jury, and all others concerned, 
and swearing with a vast variety of picturesque and 
quaint oaths that “ He’d clear the boy and hang Jake 
Branson yet; and they should see it come that way.” 

Late that Friday afternoon Sheriff Morton was sum- 


112 


A Drama of the Hills 


moned in hot haste to the remotest corner of the 
county, on the rumor of a murder having been com¬ 
mitted the previous night, requiring his immediate 
presence in search of the slayer. So summoning Uncle 
Littleberry to stand guard at the jail, as usual during 
his own absence, he saddled his great gray horse and 
rode away. Afterwards, when the unexpected had 
happened, he wondered at his carelessness in thus 
leaving the prison at such a critical time, in the care of 
only a simple old man and a weak girl. But he had 
done it so many times before and all had gone well. 
Then too Manning was now the only prisoner in the 
jail, and the sheriff thought with a smile, that he was 
hardly likely to attempt to escape from Mary’s cus¬ 
tody! And so he rode away in careless confidence that 
what had been, should continue to be, and that he 
would find all well upon his return. 

Darkness had fallen upon the county seat. The 
lights which had shone here and there from cottage 
windows, disappeared one by one as the inhabitants 
betook them to their early slumbers. Mary had 
held a long, sweet conference with her lover, and 
despite the court’s refusal of a new trial their hearts 
were light, and their courage failed not. At last the 
good night kisses were given and taken, the last 
words said, and Mary betook her up the stairway to 
her own room. The balmy spring day had closed with 
a chilling northwest wind, heavy clouds covered the 
sky, and the moonless night was exceedingly dark. 
The old jail stood grim and forbidding in the obscurity 


In Which Love Laughs at Locksmiths 113 

and the only sounds were the moan of the wind 
around the ancient building, or the distant baying of 
some watch dog. 

For hours Mary strove in vain to sleep. The excit¬ 
ing events of the day; the complete understanding 
between her father, her lover, and herself; and the 
perilous situation of that lover; all combined to fill 
her mind with a whirl of thought effectually driving 
slumber from her eyes. Suddenly she was startled by 
a sharp sound as of something striking against the 
window at the foot of her bed. She listened intently 
and with a fast beating heart, and had begun to think 
that there had been nothing more than a trick played 
by her overwrought nerves. Then again it came, once- 
twice-thrice, louder and more distinctly than before it 
was repeated. Certainly some one was outside and 
seeking to attract attention by casting pebbles against 
her window. 

Mary Morton came of good old Ozark pioneer 
stock, and there was no drop of cowardly blood in her 
veins. So she rose, making no outcry, slipped on some 
of her clothing, and with a heavy revolver in hand 
threw up the sash and called: “ Who’s there? ” 

A voice at once answered out of the blackness 
below: “ I want to see the sheriff, right quick.” The 
voice sounded like that of a girl, and as it spoke the 
thought flashed upon Mary “ May not this be some 
plan to learn whether Daddy is here! some wicked 
trick to work harm to Norman! ” And with this 
thought in her mind she replied: 


114 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ What do you want? I won’t call the sheriff unless 
it is important.” 

“ Well,” answered the voice, “ I’m jest old Ike 
Fain’s bound boy Jerry Boon. But that thar school¬ 
master feller he done kep the old man frum lickin’ 
me one day, and he give me two bits to go to the show 
with too! ” 

“ Well what of that,” cried Mary in an agony of 
fear now that Manning had been brought into the 
conversation, “ Speak quick, tell me what it is.” 

“ Well miss hit’s jest this then. Ye see I were 
a’hidin’ into old Fain’s barn jest afore dark, to keep 
from him a’lickin’ of me. And him and a whole 
passle of them Waltons, they comes out to the barn 
to git to talk whar nobody wouldn’t hear ’em. And 
they ’lowed that Mr. Manning done killed old Jim 
Walton, and that Colonel Barton were a’swearin’ to 
git him off plumb clar. So they fixed hit up to send a 
feller with a messidge to git the sheriff outten the way, 
and then a whole sward of ’em would meet at Restful 
at midnight, and ride up hyar and git Manning outten 
the jail and hang him.” 

As the story came up out of the darkness to her 
Mary at first thought that she was about to faint 
again, but the knowledge that if Manning’s life was to 
be saved it devolved wholly upon her to save it, 
steadied her nerves, and put cool determination into 
her veins. Her plans took almost instant shape, and 
bidding the boy to wait a moment she lowered the 
sash, lit her lamp, completed dressing, and in a very 


In Which Love Laughs at Locksmiths 115 

few minutes was at the foot of the stairs. She opened 
the door and admitted the boy, a thin, dark eyed little 
fellow, without disturbing the slumbers of Uncle 
Littleberry in the least. 

Uncle Littleberry, old veteran of the wars though 
he was, had not thought it needful for him to remain 
awake. He sat with his chair tipped back; his head 
leaning against the wall; his gun across his knees; 
while his snores, out of all proportion to his diminu¬ 
tive size, made the empty corridor echo again. Mary 
took the little man by his shoulder and proceeded to 
shake him vigorously, in an effort to awaken him. 

“ Let up a’shakin’ of me Mealie,” he squeaked, 
“ ain’t nigh time to be a lightin’ the fire yit. Durn hit 
all, cain’t ye leave a man be! Cussed old fool I were 
to go and git married three hundred pound weight! ” 
But at last Mary’s efforts seemed to take effect, 
the old man’s eyes opened, and he realized with 
astonishment that Mary Morton was shaking him. 
“ Good Lawd, Mary,” he squeaked, “ what’s the 
matter? Durned ef I didn’t think it were Mealie 
a’wantin’ me to build the fire! ” 

“ Uncle Littleberry,” cried Mary, “ listen now. 
The Waltons are coming to take Mr. Manning and 
lynch him. This boy heard them plan it, and rode ten 
miles to warn us. God bless him.” 

“ Wha — wha — wha — ” stuttered the old fellow, 
“ A ’cornin’ to lynch Manning ye say! Well by gad 
I’ll jest git outside with old Blazer hyar, and I’ll run 
’me plumb to hell! I’ll—.” 


116 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Oh Uncle Littleberry do talk sense. What could 
one little old man do against a hundred armed ruffi¬ 
ans! And you with an old gun you couldn’t fire in a 
month! ” 

“ Well — wel — wel —, then what’s to be did? 
Dad gast hit all! what’s to be did? ” 

“ This is what we must do,” said Mary, “ first 
we will put up all those heavy steel bars across the 
doors, and the iron shutters at the windows, so it will 
take them a long time to break in. Then I’ll take Mr. 
Manning out of his cell, and I’ll get him away to a 
place I have in mind, where he can be hidden from the 
mob. You just keep them out of the jail and hold 
them here as long as possible. When you have to let 
them in tell them that father has taken the prisoner 
and put him where they can’t get him. Do you under¬ 
stand? And will you do as I say? ” 

“ Unnerstan’ all right,” and the little veteran 
seemed to gain six inches in stature as he said it, 
and his eyes sparkled at the thought of holding that 
mob single handed, “ you bet I unnerstan’, and I’ll 
foller orders plumb to the hannel, I will. Durned 
purps, wants to hang an innercent man do they! 
Well old Uncle Littleberry fit under Pap Price too 
many year to let no sech critters git the best of him! ” 
And swollen with the sense of his own importance, and 
apparently of the opinion that the entire plan was of 
his own contrivance, he shouldered his impotent old 
gun, and tramped back and forth in the corridor with 
all the energy of his campaigns of thirty years before. 


In Which Love Laughs at Locksmiths 117 

Having brought Uncle Lifctleberry to this satisfac¬ 
tory frame of mind, Mary took a lamp and hastened to 
cell Number 2. Manning, also, had had but poor 
success in wooing slumber, and at the click of the latch 
and the glow of the lamp was wide awake in an instant. 

“ Norman,” called Mary; and at the word his face 
was at the wicket. “ What is it dear? ” he asked, and 
then she hurriedly told him of the new peril he was in. 

“ But what can be done my darling? ” he asked. 

“ This is what we will do,” she said, “ if Daddy was 
home all he could do would be to take you away to 
some safe place. And in his absence I am going to 
do that very thing.” 

“ You Mary! How can you do it? ” 

“ Let me tell you dear. The boy is waiting and can 
guide us if we need it after we start. If we can reach 
old John Hampton’s place undiscovered you can be 
hidden until we can plan what to do next.” 

“ John Hampton’s! ” cried Manning in astonish¬ 
ment, “ Why Mary that is right in the heart of the 
Walton settlement! it’s like putting my head in the 
lion’s mouth! ” 

“ And that’s the very reason why you will be safer 
there than anywhere else within reach. And dearie, 
what else can we do? ” 

Norman thought hard and fast for a minute and 
then he said: “ 

“ I believe you are right Mary. The boldness of the 
plan is its chief recommendation. They would never 
imagine that I would take refuge in their very midst, 


118 


A Drama of the Hills 


and as you say, we have no other choice. It's a marvel 
to me how you ever thought it all out, on the spur of 
the moment too.” 

“ Oh,” she laughed, “ you will find out yet what a 
wonder I am!” Then urging the old veteran to keep 
the mob around the jail as long as possible, and leaving 
word for the sheriff that they would communicate with 
him as quickly as they could safely do so, they stepped 
outside the door. 

They heard Uncle Littleberry locking and barring 
it within, and as they waited a moment for the boy to 
find his horse and return to act as their guide, Man¬ 
ning struck a match and glanced at his watch. It was 
then half past eleven. In half an hour the mob, in 
carrying out their plan, would start from Restful for 
the county seat. 

Manning suggested that as the intense darkness 
would render them invisible at even a few feet dis¬ 
tant, they should take the most direct road to Rest¬ 
ful. Not only because this was the shortest route, 
but because the mob would undoubtedly follow this 
road. They might, with care hear the approach of 
such a large body of horsemen in time to step out of 
the way, and, invisible themselves, could perhaps 
overhear something of the plans of their enemies as 
they passed. 

So concluding that the boldest plan was still the 
safest, Mary slipped her hand in Norman’s arm for the 
first time, and with Jerry Boon leading the way they 
fared forth through the intense black night. 


CHAPTER XIII 

Uncle Littleberry Holds the Fort 

As they passed beyond the limits of the town and 
found themselves upon the plain, well traveled road to 
Restful, Manning said to Mary: “ I could find the 
way now blindfolded, and we don’t need the boy 
another minute. It would get him into great trouble 
if Fain or any of the Waltons discovered him tonight, 
and I think we had better send him off so that he will 
be out of harm’s way.” 

“I was just thinking about him,” answered Mary, 
“ and you are right, he should go. But I have a plan 
for him which will not only get him out of danger, but 
may be of the very greatest service to us at the same 
time.” And then she called softly: “ Oh Jerry, see 
here a minute won’t you? ” 

The boy instantly responded, and in a moment they 
could distinguish his form perched high on the back of 
his bare boned steed. 

“ Jerry,” said the girl, “ do you know of a short cut 
you could take so as to get to Uncle John Hampton’s 
quicker than by the main road? ” 

“ Yes’m I do that,” answered the boy, “ but hit 
’ud be mighty rough travellin’ fur ye on foot, and hit 
so dark.” 


120 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Well I wasn’t thinking that we would try to fol¬ 
low you for we should probably lose time doing so. 
But Jerry, you have already done so much to help us 
that we can never pay you for it all, but if you want 
to add yet more to it, it would be just grand if you 
would take that short cut and get to Uncle John’s as 
soon as you can. Be careful none of the Waltons 
discover you, wake Uncle John, and tell him about the 
plan to lynch Mr. Manning, and that we are coming 
on the main road. Tell him he must find a place to 
hide Mr. Manning, so the mob can’t find him. Can 
you do all this? ” 

Jerry had evidently listened to good purpose for his 
instant reply showed that he had grasped the plan 
perfectly, and he hastened to agree to it in every 
detail. “ And Jerry,” added Mary, “ remember 
Mr. Manning’s life is in your hands. I trust you 
entirely, only don’t do anything likely to give a hint 
about our plan.” 

Jerry’s sharp childish voice answered at once: 
“ Don’t ye never be skeered for me Miss. My Pap 
he were a Union scout endurin’ of the war. And my 
Grandpap he died ruther’n tell a bunch of bresh- 
whackers whar a wownded Union soldier was a’hidin’ 
one of them times. I’d shore do the likes fur Mr. 
Manning ary time, efsobe he were a’needin’ of hit! ” 

“ God bless you Jerry,” said Norman, “ I believe 
you would indeed. And if ever I get out of my troubles 
alive, I’ll see that you have your chance in the world.” 

“ Don’t want no pay, I don’t. Ye stood my friend 


Uncle Littleberry Holds the Fort 121 

agin old Ike Fain, and I’m shore your friend fur hit. 
But the path takes out here right up that thar pint 
yander, and I’ll jest be addin’.” And as his voice 
ceased he was swallowed up in the darkness, and they 
could hear the horse’s feet scattering loose stones as 
he climbed the steep hill to the more level path of 
the ridge beyond. 

Then the two lovers resumed their walk, and made 
rapid progress along the highway, realizing that they 
still had eight long miles to traverse before they could 
reach John Hampton’s. They knew not how long 
Uncle Littleberry would be able to detain the mob, 
when those gentlemen should have reached the 
county seat, and they realized that all haste was 
necessary. But they were young and strong; the 
cool night wind, and the unaccustomed freedom lent 
wings to their feet; and more, ah a thousand times 
more, they were together, and their hearts rested in 
each other’s love, and the miles slipped by them 
unawares. 

Norman had just said: “ Seems to me we should 
meet the gang along here somewhere, unless this is a 
false alarm after all, when he felt Mary’s grasp tighten 
upon his arm, and her voice whispered tensely, 
“ Hark! ” 

With every nerve strained to the utmost they stood 
and listened, and then out of the darkness ahead of 
them they heard at intervals a hollow sound. 

“ That is the mob,” said Norman. “ That is the 
sound of their horses’ feet upon a little bridge over a 


122 A Drama of the Hills 

spring branch that crosses the road a little way 
ahead.” 

Close by their side as they stood in the road, and 
but two or three steps away, they could discern a 
denser mass of blackness against the dark of the night 
They stepped to it and found it to be an immense 
block of limestone lying at the foot of the hill, down 
which it had rolled at some remote time. 

On top of this boulder bushes and vines had found 
root and made a growth sufficiently thick to have 
hidden them even in the light of day, as Norman 
knew when he recognized the place. 

“ Just the place of all others which we want,” he 
said, and helping Mary to the top of the great rock he 
crouched at her side with her hand clasped in his, while 
their hearts beat like battle drums. 

In a few moments they could hear the trampling of 
many iron shod hoofs; the creaking of saddles and 
stirrup leathers; and the murmur of men’s voices. 
Then, so close below them that it seemed as if they 
had but to reach out their hands to touch them, rode 
a ghostly procession of horsemen. Two by two they 
went, and it seemed to the interested spectators that 
the line was long enough in passing to contain hun¬ 
dreds of men. Then out of the darkness a gruff voice 
spoke: 

“ I don’t more’n half believe that this hyar Man¬ 
ning feller killed Uncle Jim no how. Ef I had my 
hands onto Jake Branson I ’low I’d git the truth outen 
him, fur I b’leeve he done hit.” 


Uncle Littleberry Holds the Fort 123 

“ Hesh ye durned fool,” spoke another voice, 
“ don’t ye know as how Jake has plumb disappeared? 
some ’un has shore got to pull hemp fur killin’ of 
Uncle Jim, and s’long as jedge, and jury says hit’s 
Manning, why I ruther hang him, than one of our own 
kin, ef he is an ornery one.” 

Then silence again until a man further along in the 
column said: “ Durn sharp trick a’gittin’ Harry 
Morton to ride a fool errand twenty mile out into the 
kentry! I do ’low he’d fight like the very devil hisself 
ef he were in the old jail! ” A hoarse laugh rumbled 
along the line at this remark, and then the last of the 
horsemen passed, and solitude again settled upon the 
night. 

Manning and Mary waited probably ten minutes 
longer, to avoid all chance of meeting some belated 
straggler of the mob, and then climbed down from the 
boulder and resumed their walk, at even a swifter 
pace than before. For now they knew that their foes 
being behind them, haste alone could save them from 
capture by the band upon t its return. 

Uncle Littleberry tramped back and forth in the 
dense gloom of the jail corridor for what seemed to him 
an interminable time. Still nothing materialized and 
silence reigned both inside and outside the jail. 
“ Durned ef I don’t beleeve the whole thing is a 
d—d fake,” he muttered, “ Wish to the Lawd 
Morton was hyar. Like’s not them Waltons jest put 
up a job to get Manning outten the jail, and sent that 
thar boy to tole him out so’s they could git him.” 


124 


A Drama of the Hills 


This seemed so plausible a theory that he felt 
inclined to open the door and set out on an exploring 
expedition on his own account. But he was too good 
a soldier to disobey the orders of his superior so 
flagrantly as that, and accepting Mary Morton as 
that superior until the return of her father, he resolved 
to follow her orders to the letter. 

So he turned to resume his tramp back and forth, 
when the corridor echoed and reechoed with a vigorous 
pounding upon the door. Instantly the old man 
challenged: “ Halt! Who goes thar? ” “ Open the 

door,” a voice answered, “ we hev a prisoner to give 
in charge to the sheriff.” 

“ Who be ye? Whar ye frum? and what mought 
yer names be? ” 

“ Never ye mind axin' so many questions,” an¬ 
swered another voice, “ open this hyar door, and do it 
purty toluble damned quick too, or we’ll know the 
reason why! Unnerstan’ don’t ye! ” 

“ Oh ho Mister, so that’s yer game is hit,” came the 
old fellow’s answer, “ wal efsobe ye have a shore 
’nuff prisoner, ye better go camp sommers with him 
te’l mornin’. I opens no doors without sheriff’s 
orders, and he’s a’sleepin’ too sound fur me to be 
a’wakin’ of him afore day.” 

The intimation that the sheriff was within seemed 
to cause consternation outside, as Uncle Littleberry 
meant that it should. There was evidently some 
earnest consultation before a voice again spoke: 
“Ye cain’t fool us old man. We knows right well the 


Uncle Littleberry Holds the Fort 125 

sheriff ain’t within fifteen mile of here. Now then 
open the door and let us bring our man in.” 

“ Right shore ye ain’t a’wantin to take yer man 
out, ’stid of bringin’ of him in? ” was the shrill rejoinder 
to this last appeal. “ Now then boys,” Littleberry 
heard the voice say, “ no use foolin’ no longer. That 
d—d old lizard in thar jest ’lows to fool us ’tel day, 
and keep us from a’gettin’ of our man. I votes we 
bust in the door and takes him. Be plumb light in a 
couple hours, and we got a heap of bizness to ’tend to.” 

This seemed to meet with approval of the crowd, 
and a score of voices endorsed the proposal. At once 
half a dozen stalwart shoulders were thrust against 
the door, and pushed with all the strength of toil 
hardened muscles. But although the ancient door 
cracked and creaked under the pressure, the stout iron 
bar, resting at each end in equally stout iron sockets, 
held firm, and the pushers stopped to catch breath 
for another effort. 

Then the old guard’s shrill voice sounded again: 
“ Say you fellers, agin ye push that door in ye’ll be a 
heap better men’n I ’low ye are. Likewise also, ef 
ye try hit again I’ll let a muskit ball es big es the eend 
of your thumb through the door. If one of you 
fellers gits that thar ball through his vittles it’ll be a 
powerful hard swaller fur him to deegist! ” 

“ Jest like the durned old fool to go to shootin’ 
too! ” said a voice, and for a space silence reigned. 
Then against the iron shutters at every window there 
burst a perfect storm of blows, causing Uncle Little- 


126 


A Drama of the Hills 


berry to make all speed to the nearest point of attack; 
and as soon as he had done so a fusilade of blows fell 
again upon the old door. 

The fact was that a delegation had been sent to the 
two blacksmith shops of the town, and every sledge 
hammer that could be found was taken to the jail. 
These wielded by stout arms made short work of the 
door, and in five minutes it was battered from its 
hinges and the mob poured into the corridor. 

Meanwhile a successful attack had also been made 
upon the window of Cell Number 2, and the grating 
being quickly battered away, one of the most active of 
the mob, intent on being the first to lay hands upon 
their intended victim, had been raised upon the 
shoulders of his fellows, and dropped upon the floor 
of the cell. Here he was astonished to find the room 
empty except for his own presence; and the door into 
the corridor having been carefully locked by Uncle 
Littleberry after Manning’s departure, the intruder 
found himself a prisoner, and howled manfully for 
release. 

But now the dark corridor was thronged with a 
shouting, yelling crowd, and in the confusion none 
heard, or hearing cared, for the piteous appeals from 
Cell Number 2. It took a few minutes for the men 
who were leading as best they could in darkness and 
turmoil, to lay hands on Uncle Littleberry, but it was 
soon done, and a demand made on the old fellow for 
the keys. 

“ Give us the keys, ye old skiliton,” shouted one, 


Uncle Littleberry Holds the Fort 127 

“ we’re a’goin’ to hang that d—d Manning in less than 
ten minutes! Give us the keys, tell ye! ” 

“ He, he, he ” tittered the old man then, “ Goin’ to 
hang Manning ye say? Why in thunder didn’t ye tell 
me what ye wanted? I’d a’saved ye a heap of trouble! 
Why men, Mary Morton heered someway that ye 
was a cornin’, and she snoke out with her man to the 
railroad! I do reckin she hes him half way to St. 
Louis by now. She ’lowed she’d put him in jail up 
thar fur safe keepin’. And ye were a’goin’ to hang 
him! Oh my soul! He, he, he! ” 

Uncle Littleberry’s romancing came near costing 
him dear, for in the darkness an iron hand grasped 
his neck and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.” 
“ Ye d—d little old skunk,” said the owner of that 
hand, “ ye stan’ here and lie like that agin and I’ll 
shake yer boots plumb out of yer lyin’ old throat! 
Lookee hyar! Tell me our man’s gone! ” And the 
speaker held a lighted match to the open wicket. 
Then to Uncle Littleberry’s utter dismay, he saw 
a cowering form within, and heard pitiful shrieks of 
fear coming from the cell from which he had seen 
Manning walk hours before! He stuttered and stam¬ 
mered for a moment, and then, like an inspiration 
there flashed into his mind the only possible explana¬ 
tion, and he knew that the prisoner was a member of 
the mob. 

The situation was one appealing to the very soul of 
the old veteran, and suited him, as he afterwards 
said: “ Plumb down to the ground.” So he hesitated 


128 A Drama of the Hills 

no longer, but took the keys from his pocket and 
handed them to his captor saying: 

“ Well ef ye are bound to hang him, I cain’t do no 
more. I ’low the feller needs hangin’ bad enough, but 
I nacherly had to gyard my prisoner best I could.” 

Small notice was paid to Uncle Littleberry’s 
remarks, for the cell door was now open and a dozen 
strong hands grasped the cowering, screaming, shrink¬ 
ing wretch and snatched him out of the cell. Through 
the length of the dark corridor they dragged him 
struggling as a man only struggles in the presence of 
imminent death. Out of the door he was thrust, while 
the air rang again and again with the frenzied yells of 
the victorious gang. 

By this time the whole town was aroused and the 
inhabitants flocked to the scene en masse. The 
prisoner surrounded by a dense guard of grim faced 
men, each with a revolver in his hand, was dragged 
rapidly towards a large oak tree that stood on a vacant 
lot across the street from the jail. Here a scaffold 
was quickly improvised from a couple of empty boxes; 
a rope was thrown over a limb; the noose was adjusted 
around the fellow’s neck, and he was lifted by strong 
hands and placed upon top of the boxes, actually 
now speechless with terror. 

But at the critical instant there flashed upon the 
scene the light of two or three “fat pine ” torches 
that had been brought by some of the mob for use at 
just this juncture. The yellow light flamed abroad, 
and then, in the very breath in which the word was 


Uncle Littleberry Holds the Fort 129 


about to be given to knock the boxes from under the 
victim’s feet, there came a shout: 

“ Hold on thar! that thar ain’t no Manning! 
That thar’s Billy Crawford from down on Osage 
Fork! ” 

And at that poor Billy Crawford found his voice and 
utilized it in such vigorous shrieks, curses, and vitu¬ 
peration, that all present knew in an instant that in 
some unaccountable way a blunder had been made, 
and the wrong man seized! Back to the jail then 
rushed the mob, leaving Billy Crawford still standing 
on the precarious footing of the boxes, his arms still 
pinioned, the noose still around his neck, and in 
imminent peril of upsetting the boxes, and thus acting 
as his own executioner. 

“ He-he-he,” snickered old Littleberry, in response 
to the frantic questioning of the leaders of the mob, 
“ What’d I tell ye? Done told ye Manning warn’t 
here. Maybeso now ye’ll bleeve me. Tell ye he’s 
half way to St. Louie by now! ” And cheated of their 
victim; made the laughing stock of the whole region 
by their narrow escape from hanging one of their own 
number; and completely bamboozled by Uncle 
Littleberry’s scientific lying, the mob perforce ac¬ 
cepted his statement, and weary, profane and dis¬ 
gusted took up, in the gray dawn, their journey home. 


CHAPTER XIV 
Mary Claims her Right 

Uncle John Hampton was awakened out of sound 
slumber by a faint cry of “ Hello/ ; under his window. 
He lay for a moment thinking that perhaps he had 
been dreaming. Then he heard it again in a childish 
voice: “ Hello.” So hesitating no longer he slipped 
from his bed, without arousing his wife, and softly 
opened the door. 

There on the doorstep stood poor little Jerry Boon, 
the bound boy of his neighbor Isaac Fain. The kind 
hearted old man had pitied the little fellow’s hard lot, 
and had done all in his power to mitigate it, and his 
first thought now was that the boy had fled to him 
for shelter from some further cruelty. 

“ It’s me, Uncle John, Jerry Boon,” the boy whis¬ 
pered. “ Why good Lord Jerry, what ye a’doin’ here 
this time o’night? ” And then Jerry hurriedly told his 
story, and as he did so the old man drew him gently 
into the house and closed the door. 

“ Jerry,” he said in a whisper, when the tale was 
finished, “ ye are as brave as your Paw were endurin’ 
of the war. I were a’knowin’ to a many a brave thing 
he done myself, but son, he didn’t do nary thing no 
braver than this here. God bless ye Jerry, and don’t 


Mary Claims Her Right 131 

ye never go to think Uncle John will ever fergit this 
neither.” 

But time pressed, so urging the boy to hasten to the 
Fain house, and into his bed before his absence should 
be discovered, he let the little fellow out of the door, 
and proceeded to arouse his wife, greatly to that good 
lady's surprise. 

“ John,” she said, “ thar ain't nothin' fur hit 
exceptin' to put him into the old hidin’ hole. Thank 
the Lord we never told nobody not even exceptin' 
of the children whar it war you used to hide from the 
breshwhackers, and nary a livin' soul, exceptin' of us 
two knows ary thing about hit.” 

“ Mandy,” said the old man, “ I jest nacherly 
bleeve the Lord hisself kep us from tellin' about that 
place. Now hit's a'goin to save another man's life, 
like's not.” 

Like many another home among the Ozark hills 
during the bloody days of Civil War, the old Hampton 
house had its secret hiding place. Here when hard 
pressed by those who sought his life, in his occasional 
visits to his home while serving as a soldier, John 
Hampton had more than once hidden from pursuit. 
The old house had originally consisted of but one log 
building, divided into two rooms, with an open covered 
way between them, after the pattern of thousands of 
the larger log cabins of the hills. But as the family of 
the first settler and his descendants increased with the 
years, other rooms had been added until they num¬ 
bered some eight or ten in all, each addition after the 


132 


A Drama of the Hills 


original two rooms, being simply a new one-room log 
cabin set against those that had preceded it with little 
regard to symmetry so long as the main purpose of 
more room was accomplished. In this way it happened 
that a space some eight feet square was left, almost in 
the center of the little colony of connected cabins, 
inclosed on all sides, and roofed, but without floor, 
door, or windows, a dark room unknown for years. 

When but a small boy John Hampton had dis¬ 
covered this space and, with a boy’s love of a secret 
all his own, he had kept the find to himself. Then in 
his young manhood, when the perils of war, and the 
raids of the bushwhackers rendered a hiding place 
necessary, he had remembered his boyish find, and 
proceeded to utilize it to his own safety. In the corner 
of a ruinous adjoining room, now used only for the 
storage of old looms, decrepit bedsteads, and other 
such rubbish, he loosened a board or two in the floor. 
From thence he dug a narrow opening into the in¬ 
closed space. Here he had more than once found a 
safe hiding place while bloodthirsty men searched 
the house and farm to slay him. And now, ready to his 
hand, here was an ideal place of refuge for Norman 
Manning. 

Into the dusty, cob-webbed place the old couple 
carried a mattress and bedding; a chair or two; a 
lamp; and the few simple necessities which the case 
required. And long before Manning knocked upon 
the door the hiding place was ready for its occupant. 
It was past two o’clock when that knock at last 


Mary Claims Her Right 


133 


sounded, and the door opened to admit the fugitives. 
“Now bless the Lord ye are hyar and safe,” cried the 
old man, “ I begun to be skeered somethin’ had gone 
wrong. Now Norman I do reckin’ I’ve got plumb the 
safest, snuggest, best hidin’ place in all Missoury 
a’ready and waitin’ fur ye. And nary a livin’ soul, 
exceptin’ of me and my old woman, is a knowin’ of 
whar it are. Hit saved me frum the breshwhackers 
three times endurin’ of the war, and hit’ll save you, 
I’m a’goin bail! ” 

But Norman’s reply seemed listless and dispirited, 
and Uncle John looked at him closely, and said: 
“ Why Norman, what’s the matter? Are ye feelin’ 
sick my boy? And no wonder says I if ye are, fur ye 
have hed enough to sicken an iron man.” 

“ I don’t know what ails me, Uncle John,” answered 
Manning, “ but for the last two miles it was all I 
could do to keep moving. If Mary hadn’t half 
carried me I’d never have made out to get through.” 

“ Hyar, let’s feel yer pulse,” and Uncle John suited 
the action to the word. “ Bless my soul man, hit’s 
goin’ a mile a minute! and yer eyes is right glassy; 
and yer cheeks is flushed plumb red. Norman, son, 
I’m powerful afraid ye are in for a run of fever of some 
sort. And what’s to be done I vow I don’t know.” 

Meanwhile Mary had drawn good old Aunt Mandy 
into another room, and facing the dear old soul she 
said: 

“ Auntie Mandy, you have known me all my life 
haven’t you? ” 


134 A Drama of the Hills 

“ Bless your dear heart, yes, and your sweet Mother 
afore ye.” 

“ Well Auntie,” said Mary, and her eyes shone, 
and her cheeks flushed, “ I have no Mother to go to 
tonight, and I am in awful trouble, and I want you 
to tell me what to do, and help me do it.” 

“ Help ye, Honey! Help ye, why of course I’ll help 
ye. God knows ye are mighty nigh as dear to me 
as my own girl ’ud have be’n ef the dear Lord had a let 
me keep her.” 

“ Then Auntie, remember I must talk fast, for we 
must get Norman hid before those wretches get back 
from Labrador. Auntie, Norman and I love each 
other. Father knows about it and approves of it. 
And we are promised to each other.” 

“ Why God bless ye darlin’, that’s good news, fur 
if ever thar was a man good enough fur ye I do ’low 
Norman Manning is that one.” 

“ Well then Auntie, listen. Norman is sick. I 
am afraid that he is going to be very sick indeed, and 
he will have to be in hiding to keep him from these 
men who would murder him. Auntie, don’t you see 
what I mean? His wife must be with him to care for 
him while he is sick! ” 

The old woman was breathless with surprise for a 
moment, but the urgency of the case made her mind 
work swiftly, and as she ran over the conditions her 
good sense compelled her to acknowledge that Mary 
was right. Indeed if Manning was destined to a severe 
illness the girl’s plan was not only right, but was in all 


Mary Claims Her Right 135 

probability the one on which the young man's life 
might depend. 

“ Wait a minute dearie," said Aunt Mandy then, 
“ let's ask Uncle John about this. He's a Jestice of the 
Peace ye know, and he kin marry ye all right efsobe 
he thinks like I do, that that's the best thing to do." 
So opening the door she beckoned to her husband 
and he came to her. 

Meanwhile during the consultation between Aunt 
Mandy and Mary, the old man had persuaded Nor¬ 
man to lie down on the bed, and leaving him there he 
answered his wife's summons. In a few words she 
stated the case to her surprised husband, and asked his 
judgment upon Mary's plan. 

“ Well wife," he said, “ I’m afeered that Norman 
s in fur a hard run of fever. He is liable to need 
inussin', and nuss r n’ of the best kind too, to pull him 
through. Ye tell me Harry Morton is a'knowin' to 
these two young folks a'keerin' for one another, and 
is agreeable to hit." Then after a pause, “ Mandy, 
if she were our own daughter I'd say, let 'em marry, 
and the quicker the better! " 

And Mary Morton, hearing his verdict, laid her 
arms around the old man’s neck and pressed her lips 
to his withered cheek. “ Thank you Uncle John," 
she said, “ I knew I was right." Then the old man 
hastened into the other room again, and arousing 
Manning, who was already almost sunken into a 
torpor, told him of the plan for an immediate marriage. 

To Hampton's surprise Manning objected strenu- 


186 


A Drama of the Hills 


ously to the proposition. In fact refused his con¬ 
sent to it. “ Why Uncle John,” he cried: “ how could 
I for a moment think of letting Mary sacrifice herself 
in such a way? If I was a free man it would be differ¬ 
ent, but I am a man under sentence of death, and it 
would not be right for me to let her do it, just because 
her kind heart leads her to help me in my trouble. 
No Uncle John, it’s the dearest wish of my heart to 
call her my wife, but I must not consent to it now.” 

But Mary and Aunt Mandy had entered while this 
debate was in progress, and as Manning ceased speak¬ 
ing the girl stood before him. She laid her hands upon 
his shoulders, blushing divinely, but looking him 
squarely in the face with the gray eyes that he loved, 
and said: 

“ Norman, listen dear. You love me don’t you? ” 

“ Love you! Yes, my God how I love you! He 
only knows! ” 

“ Well then dear, you know I love you, don’t you? ” 

“ Yes my darling, I do. How could I doubt it 
after tonight? ” 

“ Then Norman dear, listen again. Father knows 
and approves of our engagement. We are man and 
wife at this instant in the very sight of God! You are 
sick; are liable to be terribly ill; Uncle John and Aunt 
Mandy can hide you, but they cannot nurse you while 
you are sick, for that would be likely to disclose your 
hiding place. It is your wife’s place to care for you, 
dear. Oh don’t let us waste another minute, for the 
mob may be back at any time now. Think me un- 


Mary Claims Her Right 


137 


maidenly if you must Norman, but I demand my 
right to take care of my — husband! ” 

“ Unmaidenly! oh my darling! I know I ought not 
to consent to your sacrificing yourself for my comfort, 
but I am sick, and I haven’t the strength to refuse your 
sweet help.” 

So there, at dead of night, within the rough log 
walls of the old farm house, Norman Manning and 
Mary Morton stood before the saintly old man and 
spoke the vows that made them man and wife. And 
after the gray haired patriarch had called down the 
blessing of God upon their heads he led the way, and 
brought them into the place of refuge. A rude bridal 
chamber indeed for so fair a bride, but when Norman 
sank down on the pallet so ill that he scarcely could 
recognize the sweet face bending over him Mary 
Manning thanked God that she had insisted upon her 
wifely right to care for him in his weakness. 

Then for long days life was a blank to Norman 
Manning. The fearful strain and anxiety; the horror 
of the long months under the shadow of the gallows; 
had at last broken down even his iron strength, and 
for weary days and nights he lay in the grip of brain 
fever, and life and reason hung trembling in the 
balance. While for all those dark hours, one hand 
alone could soothe his fevered brain, one voice calm 
the wild vagaries of his mind. The hand and the voice 
of the brave little wife, who had thrown herself into 
the fight for his life, to win the battle or die with him. 


CHAPTER XV 

In which a New Ally is Enlisted 

Colonel Barton was sitting in his office. As usual 
the place was in a perfect maelstrom of disorder. 
Also as usual, his chair was tipped back against the 
wall at a dangerous angle. His knees were spread 
wide apart, and a heel of either shoe hung over the 
rungs of the chair. His wool hat reposed in the bottom 
of the dusty and empty wood box, and although his 
wiry black hair already stood mostly upright upon his 
head his left hand continuously combed it upward still 
straighter, while his right held the inevitable corn cob 
pipe. The Colonel was evidently in deep and per¬ 
plexing thought, and his muttered words were of a 
potency alike satisfactory to a troubled spirit, and 
improper to put into cold and condemning type. 

Two weeks had passed since the night of the mob. 
Norman Manning and his keeper Mary Morton, had 
disappeared as entirely as if they had vanished into 
thin air. Not a word had the Colonel heard from his 
client. Not a fine had been received either by himself 
or the half frantic sheriff, as to what had become of the 
pair who had fled into the darkness as Uncle Little- 
berry locked and barred the jail door against the 
coming of the mob. 


In Which a New Ally is Enlisted 139 

The Colonel hated a mystery. Most of all he hated 
a mystery in which he was personally involved, with¬ 
out having the key to it in his own possession. And 
this was emphatically such a mystery. All day and 
every day, and all hours of the day, he had been 
quizzed for his opinion as to the present location of the 
fugitives; his knowledge of any intent his client may 
have had of fleeing from justice; his own plans for 
obtaining tidings of the pair; and so on in endless 
flow and reiteration. 

Under this prolonged inquisition the temper of the 
old fighter, never of the most angelic character, was 
aggravated to such a pitch of chronic inflammation as 
to render it almost as much as a man’s life was worth 
to ask him a question in any way referring to the case. 
A case, which by this time filled the minds of the 
population of Lafleet County to the practical exclusion 
of all other subjects. 

Into the door, then, of the Colonel’s office, and fac¬ 
ing its occupant at the very climax of his exaspera¬ 
tion, came one afternoon his old friend John Hampton. 
“ Howdy Colonel,” he said cheerfully, and the 
Colonel’s reply came hot and furious: 

“Now here comes another durned idiot to ask me 
where them two young fools went! How the d—1 do 
you suppose I know where they are? For all I know 
they are in China by now, and I wish to the Lord they 
were! ” But Hampton made no reply to this bom¬ 
bardment, and only smiled a slow smile and stood 
silent. 


140 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Why the d—1 and Tom Walker don’t you say 
something,” shouted the Colonel, “ Never knew you 
struck dumb before. Go ahead and ask your fool 
questions and I’ll try and answer them, if I don’t go 
plumb crazy first and kill you instead! ” 

“ I were a’thinkin’ Colonel, that thar warn’t no 
call fur me to say nothin’ untel you got through. 
Now efsobe ye have it all off your mind, why I’ve 
somethin’ to tell ye.” 

“ Something to tell me,” cried Barton, “ well by 
gad you are the first man in two weeks that didn’t 
want me to do all the telling! Now then, what is it? ” 
Before answering Hampton stepped softly to the 
door, glanced down the steps before closing it again, 
and let down the sash in the open window. “ Don’t 
want nobody a’catchin’ on to what I say,” he said 
as he drew up a chair to the Colonel’s side and said: 

“ Colonel, have ye ary Doctor round hyar who ye 
kin trust with a man’s life, even to a’dyin’ fur hit 
hisself? ” 

“ A Doctor,” cried Barton, “ what next! I ain’t 
running a hospital that I knows of! ” 

“ Now Colonel,” went on Hampton’s calm voice, 
“ I’ll tell ye plain without no more beatin’ around the 
bush, jest what I mean, and why I axed ye about a 
Doctor. But don’t ye say ary word untel I gits 
through, then I’ll answer ary question ye likes to ax 
me. Colonel I knows whar Norman Manning is hid. 
She that were Mary Morton is with him. She ain’t 
Mary Morton no more Colonel, fur I married them 


In Which a New Ally is Enlisted 141 

that night after they give the mob the slip. Thar 
now, keep quiet I tell ye! Ain’t no use a’cussin’ about 
hit, hit’s all right I’m a’tellin’ of ye. Manning were 
took down with the worst fever I most ever seen, 
afore he were ten miles from town that night. Thar 
warn’t nobody to nuss him, and him and Mary were 
a’ready a’promised to each other, with Morton 
a’knowin’ to hit, and agreeable too. So I jest up and 
done what I’d a’wanted done if the sweet child were 
my oon darter, and that was I married them right 
straight. 

“Well Colonel, Norman has been powerful sick, and 
thar ain’t no manner of doubt he’d a’be’n daid afore 
now only fur the way his wife nussed him. His fever 
done broke two day ago now but he don’t git no 
strength, and looks like he is slippin’ away from 
plumb weakness. When Mary seen how his strength 
seems clean burned outten him like, and nothin’ she 
did was any help to him, she come as nigh a’givin’ up 
as that kind of woman ever does. So she comes to me 
this morning and she says to me: 1 Uncle John I 
know a Doctor ’ud know what to do to git him well. 
Can’t ye study up some way to git one to him without 
any one a’knowin’ about hit? ’ So I ’lowed that ef 
thar were a man a’livin’ who could jholp us his name 
were Jabez Barton, and so hyar I be.” 

Probably no occurrence in all his eventful life ever 
came so near striking Colonel Barton dumb as this 
long story from his old comrade. 

“ My God man,” he said earnestly, “ if anybody 


142 


A Drama of the Hills 


but you had told me any sech a tale I’d a'kicked him 
down the steps! But I know you don't lie, and if you 
tell me that you married Norman Manning and Mary 
Morton, and know where they are hid, and must have 
a Doctor for him, why I've got to swaller it, but 
danged if it don't stretch my old gullet to the limit! " 
Then as if struck by an inspiration the Colonel dealt 
his thigh a resounding slap and leaped to his feet. 

“ A Doctor you say! A Doctor to trust a man's life 
to! Well Sir, I'll believe in a divine Providence all 
the balance of my life; for if I haven't got just that 
very article I'll be d—d! " 

With which admixture of devout sentiment and 
profanity he bade John Hampton sit down and await 
his return, and fled down the stairs three steps at a 
jump. In fifteen minutes he was back and told 
Hampton that the doctor would take the case, add¬ 
ing: “ The very man I'd have chosen if I had the 
whole United States to pick from! " But to Hamp¬ 
ton’s inquiry as to the doctor's identity he only 
answered: 

“ Wait a bit. We’ve got to plan some way to get 
him out of town without attracting attention to him. 
Those d—d Waltons watch me like so many hawks 
watching a chicken. I expect half a dozen of 'em are 
roosting around right now trying to catch on to your 
errand to my office. 

“ I haven't asked you where you are going to take 
the doctor and I don't want to know. But suppose 
you go on your way home, say a couple of miles or so, 


In Which a New Ally is Enlisted 143 

and then wait along till you see an old feller riding a 
big white horse. That’ll be him; and I’ll just say that 
I’ll risk my immortal soul that he’ll keep faith with 
us, and not betray the boy. If mortal man can do it 
he’ll get the poor feller well too, but what’s to do when 
he is well I swear I don’t know.” 

“ Never you mind Colonel, fust thing let’s git him 
well. Take keer of the next thing agin hit comes 
along. Now how soon ye reckin this hyar doctor of 
yourn’ll be a’ketchin’ up with me? ” 

“ Well you better go to a store or two, and buy some¬ 
thing or ’nuther as an errand. Go to the Post Office, 
too, work in with the loafers that are sure to be there 
just now, for it’s near mail time. Drop a word or two 
wondering where on earth Manning has got to; and 
knock around natural like for a little. That’ll serve 
to throw these Walton critters off the track maybe. 
Then you pike out, and pretty quick I’ll start Doc 
out on the Waynesville road, and let him cut over on 
the first cross road he comes to. Then you and him 
for it! ” 

“ Thar by doggy, thar’s another thing I like to have 
forgot,” said Hampton. “ Mary she pintedly told 
me to be shore and git word to her Daddy, to let him 
know she were all right. How it were bekase Manning 
were took sick that she didn’t come home. And 
she said give him her dear love, and tell him about her 
havin’ to marry like she done.” 

“ You go see him Colonel right soon, and tell him 
about me a’marryin’ of ’em, and why I done hit. 


144 


A Drama of the Hills 


And you tell him, too, Fll stake my life to do all one 
man kin fur his sweet little darter, God bless her, 
says I! ” 

And then the program as outlined by the Colonel 
was carried out. Uncle John leisurely took his way 
into a store or two; made purchase of some little 
household necessities; chatted with the men in the 
Post Office; and then mounted his horse and took his 
homeward way. The sun was drawing near the west¬ 
ern hills when the old man reached the great rock 
where the fugitives had hidden two weeks before, 
although of course he was not aware of that fact. 
Here he halted and waited in the gathering shadows. 

Then down the road he saw approaching a large 
white horse the rider of which at once seemed to him 
as someway a familiar figure. As the horseman drew 
closer Hampton rode out from behind the rock, and 
then with a shout each man recognized the other. 
For the newcomer had served through the Civil War 
as surgeon of the regiment to which John Hamp¬ 
ton had belonged. Mutual services, some of them 
rendered at risk of life and freedom, had knit their 
hearts as closely as it is possible for human hearts to 
be joined. But their homes were far apart; both were 
busy men, and thus it was that this was their first 
meeting for years. 

“ Now God bless my soul,” cried Hampton, “ ef 
hit ain't Doc. Manderson! ” 

“ Old comrade, how are you? ” responded the doc¬ 
tor, “ I owe Colonel a load of thanks for this surprise!” 


In Which a New Ally is Enlisted 145 

“ Yes siree, so do I,” said Hampton as with hands 
clasped they looked into each other’s eyes, “ Old 
Colonel is mighty rough barkin’ sometimes, but his 
heart is plumb in the right place after all. Well 
upon my word Doc., this is certain the best thing 
happened me sence the surrender! I shore do 
beleeve the dear Lord hisself, sent you along jest at 
this time.” 

The doctor was as happy at the unexpected meet¬ 
ing, as his war-time comrade, and he said: “Well 
John, I had to come up to Labrador to see old man 
Matlock, and of course I called on Colonel Barton. 
That is how he knew I was in town. Then he came to 
me awhile ago and told me an old friend of his needed 
me to visit the son of a Union Colonel who was liable 
to die unless he had help soon. But he never told me 
that you were the old friend, or who the young man 
was.” 

So as the two friends rode along together Hampton 
told in brief the story of Norman Manning, and the 
peril he was in. And as he did so the black eyes of the 
Doctor blazed with indignation, melted with sym¬ 
pathy, or shone with determination, as the varying 
phases of the story appealed to him. 

“ And so Doc.,” concluded Hampton, “ ye see ye 
come jest when ye were worst needed ever in your life. 
And likewise hit’s a ticklish bizness ye got into by 
a’comin’. Efsobe them hot headed Waltons was to 
ketch on to whar I got the boy hid away; or ef they 
larnt what for ye were hyar, thar’s no tellin’ the 


146 


A Drama of the Hills 


mischief they’d do you’n me. And it’s plumb daid 
sartain they’d do pore Norman to death.” 

Thus it was that the two concluded that Hampton 
should ride on so as to reach his home well in advance 
of the doctor. And that the latter should act on his 
arrival at the place, as any ordinary traveler in search 
of lodging for the night, after the hospitable fashion of 
the Ozarks. So after minutely describing his home in 
order that the doctor should recognize it when he 
arrived, John Hampton put spurs to his horse and rode 
for home at the animal’s best speed. He had put the 
horse in the stable, and was seated at the fire place 
some minutes before the doctor’s, “ Hello,” sounded 
at the gate. 

They did not know until long afterwards that a 
sentinel watched the return of John Hampton to his 
home that night, and that the commonplace arrival 
of the doctor so completely convinced the fellow that 
nothing unusual was on foot, that he left his post, and 
the coast was clear for that night at least. In due time 
Doctor Manderson was ushered into the hidden room, 
and made an exhaustive examination of his patient. 
Then in the cheerful voice that had brought hope and 
comfort into many a sick room, he said: 

“ Mrs. Manning, if you had been a trained nurse 
you could not have done a better job. All our boy 
needs now is a little tonic which I will fix for him, and 
to get out into the open air. 

“ I know that last sounds like a hard prescription 
to fill under the circumstances, but it is positively 


In Which a New Ally is Enlisted 


147 


essential. He must get out of here somehow. For 
that matter my dear girl, you will be down sick your¬ 
self if you are cooped up here in the dark much longer. 

“ Now I’ll leave some medicine for you both, and 
then John Hampton and I will lay our heads together 
and see if we can think up a workable plan to get you 
both out of here. It won’t be the first time we’ve 
cooked up devilment to fool the rebels either, by 
a great deal! Mr. Manning I knew and loved your 
father, and helped carry his body from the battle field 
of Pittsburg Landing. He was a brave man, and I 
count it a favor that I am able to be of use to his 
boy. Don’t you get down-hearted for a second over 
your troubles. Just get well and we’ll all take hold 
and pull you through in short order. So I’ll say good 
night, and God bless you.” 

And when the good man had left Manning and his 
wife alone again, they realized that another strong, 
unselfish, and able helper had joined the ranks of their 
friends in this their time of need. 


CHAPTER XVI 

Tom Leathers Joins in a Plot 

Early next morning John Hampton and his guest 
were in the saddle and riding up the valley to Restful. 
Here they found big Tom Leathers just opening the 
door of his smithy preparatory to beginning his day’s 
labors. There was no one in sight or hearing at the 
moment, so after introducing the doctor John Hamp¬ 
ton stooped and hurriedly and earnestly whispered to 
Leathers: 

“ Don’t let on to be surprised Tom, fur thar’s no 
tellin’ how many eyes are lookin’ at us right now, but 
Doc. and me has a plan fur gettin’ Manning plumb 
outten the country. I knows right whar he is a’hidin’, 
and I know shore ye are friendly to the pore feller. 
Now we three must jine to git him away and give him 
a chanst fur his life. How is it, are ye with us? ” 

It was well that Hampton had cautioned Leathers 
against manifesting surprise at his announcement, 
for even with that caution it taxed the big blacksmith’s 
will power to keep from giving exultant yells of 
approval. 

“ With ye, Uncle John! ” he whispered in a tone 
suggestive of a locomotive blowing off steam, “ With 


Tom Leathers Joins in a Plot 149 

ye! Why siree, I’m fur that boy agin the warld, the 
flesh, and the devil, includin’ of the whole bilin’ of 
Waltons! ” 

“ Now then Leathers,” interrupted the Doctor 
anxious to prevent any louder demonstration on the 
part of the blacksmith, “Now then, Mr. Hampton 
tells me that you are a master hand at judging tie 
timber. Do you suppose now, you could take a week 
or so and go down into the east part of Texas County, 
and estimate the amount of tie timber I have on a 
section of land I own down there? ” 

Then as the big fellow seemed somewhat puzzled 
at the sudden change of subject, the physician said in 
a low voice, and with a twinkle of the eye: 

“You would have to take along a good canvas 
topped wagon, and a strong fast team. You know you 
might find room for a couple of passengers, see! ” 

“ Betcher life I kin see! Kin fix hit jist as slick as 
grease! and ef I don’t look up that thar timber, Doc., 
and git my passengers into a good kentry at the same 
time, why then hang me ’stid of Manning, says I! ” 

“ This horse needs to have his shoes reset, I think,” 
said the Doctor with a wink at the smith, and Leathers 
picking up the animal’s hoof, found the shoe had not 
been in use to exceed a week at most, but he returned 
the doctor’s wink with interest and said: “ Never 
seen a hoss that needed his shoes sot no wuss in my 
life! ” and led the animal into the shop. 

The re-shoeing process was an unusually long one, 
and proceeded in most leisurely fashion, but it served 


150 


A Drama of the Hills 


to explain the long time that the three tarried while 
they formulated their plans. Leathers was eager to 
start on his journey with his passengers, that very 
night, but the others recommended that he spend the 
remainder of the day and the next in somewhat 
ostentatious preparations. Meanwhile, incidentally 
remarking to one and another, the great good luck 
that had come to him, in a contract to estimate a 
large tract of timber just at that time of the year when 
work was naturally slack in his shop, and he could best 
afford to be away. 

His neighbors knew that he had made several such 
trips before, and would think nothing unusual of his 
taking another. To carry out still more this plan of 
accounting for his absence from his home and work, 
the three men walked across to the Post Office where 
John Hampton introduced Doctor Manderson to the 
proprietors of the store, and to two or three customers 
who happened to be present. 

“ Him and me served together four year durin’ of 
the war, and bein’ as he were called to Labrydor to 
see old man Matlock, he rid out and took me by sur¬ 
prise last night.” 

“ And I am glad that I came for more reasons than 
one,” added the Doctor, “ for I not only met my old 
comrade, but I ran across this little blacksmith fellow 
here, and find he is the best tie timber man in all 
Missouri. So I am going to send him over into Cam¬ 
den County to estimate the timber on a tract of land 
I have up there.” 


Tom Leathers Joins in a Plot 


151 


“ When ye ’low to start Tom? ” asked one of the 
group, and Leathers answered: “ I ’low to drive up to 
Labrydor today, and git some truck for my folks that 
they’s a’needin’ of. Then tomorry I’ll have to set the 
shoes on my horses, git up a pile of wood for the old 
woman, and several sech tricks, and then right airly 
next morning I’ll pull out. Hit’ll take me plumb two 
weeks to go over that tract of timber, even ef the 
weather holds good, and I shell git at hit as soon as 
I kin.” 

As they returned to the shop Leathers said: 
“ Thought ye said that land were in Texas County, 
Doctor, but in the store ye named it Cam¬ 
den.” 

“ Well,” said the Doctor, “ suppose some fellow 
got suspicious of you Tom, and started to follow you. 
Better have him going northwest into Camden 
County than southeast into Texas! don’t you think 
so? ” And the doctor’s black eyes twinkled merrily. 

“ Think so! well I should say! Doc. ye ought to 
have be’n either a detective or a hoss thief! Ye’d git 
’em if ye were the fust, and ye’d shore git away frum 
’em ef ye were the last! ” And the trio joined in a 
laugh that made the echoes awaken in the bluff across 
the river. 

Late that afternoon the doctor mounted his horse 
and started on his return. Before doing so, however, 
he paid another visit to the hiding hole, where he 
found his patient much improved but still pitifully 
weak. Sweet Mary Manning, too, showed the united 


152 


A Drama of the Hills 


effect of relief from anxiety, and a good night’s sleep. 
There was some color in her cheeks and the circles 
beneath her eyes were not quite so dark. 

“ Now then young people,” said their visitor, 
“ Uncle John has told you our plan, he tells me. It is 
a bold thing to ride through miles of the enemies’ 
territory, but the very boldness of it is its greatest 
recommendation. The worst of it will be passed in 
the dark, and none need know that the wagon has 
anything in it except Tom’s stuff. And if any one 
gets too close you will just have to pull the bedclothes 
over your heads, and keep still. I am wagering that 
Tom takes you through all right. Now I’ll say good 
bye till better times. Manning I prophesy that you 
will be practising law in Labrador inside a year from 
date, with all your troubles behind you.” And with 
a warm hand clasp for each the good man took his 
leave. 

Tom Leathers made his trip to Labrador that 
afternoon, and purchased canned goods, fruit, tinned 
meats, and so on, not generally supposed to furnish 
out the ordinary timber cruiser’s table; and lest this 
should arouse suspicion he casually remarked: 

“ Old woman ’lowed she wanted some furrin 
canned stuff; said she were plumb sick of the truck 
she done put up herself.” To these provisions Doctor 
Manderson quietly added a bottle or two of port 
wine, and a supply of such simple remedies as might be 
needed by the invalid. Then, just as Leathers was 
ready to start on his return to Restful, the good 


Tom Leathers Joins in a Plot 


153 


physician called him to one side, and placing a roll 
of bills in his hand said: 

“ Tom, use what you need of this money on the 
trip, and when you leave those two children give them 
the rest of it, with my blessing. There’s about five 
hundred dollars of it, and it will come in handy, if they 
are forced to get clear out of the country.” 

“ Five hunderd dollars did ye say! ” cried Tom, 
“ why I were plannin’ that I’d git out fifty dollars 
frum the old stockin’ to give to ’em myself. I’ll jest 
say this Doc.: ary man a’livin’ who says ye ain’t 
white plumb through to the back bone, and the marrer 
of hit, why he’s jest got me to lick, that’s all! ” 

And the doctor laughed a pleased laugh, and with a 
hearty slap on the back, and a “ good luck to you 
Tom,” he rode away. So Leathers fared on his 
homeward way, with his honest heart at ease as to 
ways and means for the sustenance and escape of the 
two young fugitives, to which end his whole soul was 
now enlisted. 

That this escape must be into some remote and 
retired locality he had at once decided. Some place 
where undisturbed Manning could rest until health 
and strength were restored. And as the big fellow 
ruminated over the problem he suddenly clapped his 
hands and said to himself: “ By doggy! That thar’s 
the best place to hide ’em in all Ameriky! I’ll jest 
talk hit over with Uncle John, and I bet he jines in 
thinkin’ hit’s the only place to take ’em to.” So the 
honest blacksmith drove merrily homeward, whistling 


154 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Granny will your dog bite,” as his wagon rumbled 
over the stony road. 

The afternoon when John Hampton had paid the 
visit to Colonel Barton, which resulted in procuring 
Doctor Manderson’s attentions for Manning’s benefit, 
the Colonel remained in his office for some time after 
Hampton’s departure, meditating as to the best way 
in which to communicate to Sheriff Morton the joyful 
news of his daughter’s safety. Finally deciding that 
the shortest method was the best, he stuck his much 
abused hat on the back of his head and made his way 
across the square to the jail. 

He found the sheriff floundering helplessly in a sea 
of figures, receipts, and bills, from which he strove to 
make out his quarterly report to submit to the county 
court. Heretofore this had been the easy duty of his 
daughter, and in his perplexity at the refusal of the 
columns to balance approximately, he had probably 
never so bitterly missed Mary’s presence as at the 
identical moment in which Colonel Barton walked 
into his room. 

“ Howdy Harry, howdy,” said the Colonel. “ Mak¬ 
ing out your report are you? Well I bet you miss 
Mary at that.” 

“ Miss her! My God, Colonel, I have missed her 
every second day and night sence she left. Seems like 
I’ll go plumb distracted crazy efsobe I don’t git word 
from her pretty quick.” 

“ Well then Harry,” said the old lawyer, laying a 
kindly hand upon the othe'r man’s knee, 11 No ca'H for 


Tom Leathers Joins m a Plot 


155 


you to go crazy. I came over a’purpose to give you 
news of the girl. ,, He hesitated a moment for the best 
word to use in announcing Mary’s marriage, when 
the sheriff leaped to his feet, seized his visitor’s 
shoulders in a grip of iron, and with his face working 
pitifully in his efforts to control his feelings, cried: 

“ For God’s sake Colonel don’t stop! I don’t 
keer what she’s done, or whar she is, efsobe ye kin 
tell me she’s safe and well! ” 

“ There then Harry, that makes it easier to tell you. 
First then she is safe and well. She has done nothing 
that is not kind and true and pure, as you surely know, 
without my telling you.” 

Then he told in detail of the escape, although he 
could not tell where the hiding place was, for he had 
not been told himself. But he did relate the sudden 
and dangerous illness of Manning as explaining why 
Mary had not returned to her father, after placing the 
prisoner in safety. Then the Colonel hesitated again 
for a moment before suddenly turning to the sheriff 
and saying: 

“ Harry, supposing that you and the good woman 
who was your wife had been situated as Mary and 
Manning were; that you loved each other and had her 
father’s blessing on it. If you had been taken deathly 
sick, among strangers and hidden away where no 
ordinary nurse could be brought to you; what would 
your sweetheart have done, under those circum¬ 
stances? ” 

As the Colonel spoke Morton’s eyes glowed with a 


156 A Drama of the Hills 

new light and when his old friend ceased speaking he 
replied: 

“ Colonel, my sweet wild rose would have married 
me right then and thar! Yes, sir, she would that, agin 
the whole endurin’ world! ” 

“ Harry,” then said the Colonel, “ your girl is her 
mother’s true and worthy daughter. She has been 
nursing her own husband all these weeks! ” 

“ I knowed hit, yes, sir, I knowed hit, soon’s ye 
told about Norman a’bein’ tuk so bad sick. I ain’t 
ary word to say agin hit, Colonel; and may God bless 
my girl and the brave young feller she chosen, fur I 
do bleeve he is worthy of her, and I couldn’t say no 
more for ary man livin’ than that! ” 

And then there flashed over him the recollection 
that even then, within less than a month loomed up 
the day set for Manning’s execution! Yes and worst 
of all that he, Harry Morton, must execute his own 
daughter’s husband! Bound by his official oath to 
hang a young man whom every instinct of his honest 
heart told him was innocent, and worthy, as he had 
just said, even of the priceless prize of Mary’s love. 

“ My God, Colonel,” he groaned, “ what can I do? 
Here I be sheriff of Lafleet County. Ordered by the 
court to take that boy and hang him by the neck until 
he is daid! and him mighty nigh the same as my own 
son,too! ” 

“ Never you mind Harry,” laughed the Colonel, 
“ we got a mighty strong recruit when we enlisted Doc 
Manderson on Manning’s side. We’ve been needin’ 


Tom Leathers Joins in a Plot 


157 


money for expenses, and a monied man to go on our 
bonds, and I couldn’t get either the one or the other 
in all Lafleet County. But bless you, old Doc. told 
me he had twenty-five thousand dollars that said 
Norman Manning don’t hang! And he told me to 
send along all the bonds I wanted to and he’d sign 
them at sight. Don’t you worry old fellow, You’ll 
never get to hang Norman Manning! ” 

And leaving Harry Morton to renew his attack 
upon his columns of figures in a much happier frame 
of mind than had been his for many days, the Colonel 
made his way back to his sanctum, and indulged 
himself in sundry pipes of tobacco, and much joyful 
meditation. 


CHAPTER XVII 
Into the Wilderness 

It was three o’clock of an intensely dark moonless, 
and foggy morning, when Tom Leathers stopped his 
canvas topped wagon at John Hampton’s gate, and 
tying his horses hastened into the house. 

“ Right on time Tom,” greeted uncle John, “ never 
knowed ye to be behind time in yer whole life, I 
didn’t. Now then tote this hyar feather bed out and 
spread hit in the bottom of yer wagin, whilst I bring 
along the quilts and blankets.” 

So said so done, and in five minutes the wagon was 
ready for its passengers. Manning had been prepared 
for his journey with all possible care. The terrible 
intensity of the fever had reduced his flesh until as he 
said: “ He was mostly skeleton! ” And mild spring 
weather as it was he was clad in his heaviest winter 
garments. 

Uncle John with Mary’s aid helped the invalid from 
his place of refuge, and when all was ready the big 
blacksmith on one side, and John Hampton on the 
other more than half carried him, and lifted him bodily 
into the wagon, laying him upon the soft bed awaiting 
him. Mary stopped only long enough to give Aunt 
Mandy a last embrace and kiss, and a hasty whisper in 


Into the Wilderness 


159 


the good woman’s ear: “ Send Daddy my dear love, 
Auntie.” Then as the old woman answered: 

“ I will that Honey; and now God bless you and 
your good man. Don’t fergit that me and uncle John 
will be a’prayin’ fur ye every minute untel we knows 
ye are out of the hands of the Philistines.” 

Into the wagon then leaped Mary, Uncle John’s 
great hand was thrust in under the canvas covering 
for a farewell grip for each of the pair starting on so 
strange a bridal tour. Then a low: “ God bless you 
Tom; keep yer eyes open, and trot them hosses every 
foot of good road, so’s to be twenty mile frum hyar 
agin sun-up.” And the flight was begun. 

The canvas top had been lifted from the two front 
bows and allowed to hang down so as completely to 
conceal the interior of the wagon from prying eyes in 
that direction, even in broad daylight. And as the 
cover at the rear was closely laced together, the 
occupants were safely hidden from anything less than 
the most intrusive and inquisitive inspection. So 
through the dark hours the wagon rumbled over the 
stony roads; sped as fast as the good horses could trot 
on every rod of passably smooth track, while with 
every revolution of the wheels the courage of the 
fugitives rose, and their belief in their final escape 
strengthened. 

When the sun rose and drove the fog flying before 
his advance, they were on one of those “ ridge roads ” 
characteristic of the Ozarks. On every side were the 
rugged hills with narrow and precipitous valleys 


160 


A Drama of the Hills 


heading up against the ridge on either hand. For 
mile after mile the road wound around, following this 
“ backbone,” and almost as level as a floor. Turning 
to every point of the cofnpass as it bore around the 
heads of thie hollows, yet without a hill to climb 
or descend for hours at a time. The road bed itself 
was of clean “ gravel pack,” out of which the rains of 
the ages had washed every particle of soil, and 
rivalled in smoothness and hardness the best examples 
of the modern road makers’ art, yet the handiwork of 
unassisted nature alone. 

Suddenly the wagon halted, and the voice of Tom 
Leathers was heard, asking: “ Is you folks in thar 
awake? ” And when the reply showed that they were 
indeed not asleep he added: 

“ I don’t believe thar’s another human within five 
mile, and I’m jest a’goin’ to raise this hyar curtain 
and let you take a look at God’s kentry.” As the big 
blacksmith said this he flung back the canvas wagon 
sheet, and before their astonished eyes there flashed 
the vision of the Ozark woodlands in the early dawn 
of a May day. 

Far away along the horizon lay the outlines in 
faintest blue of the most distant hills. “ Fifty mile 
frum hyar if they’s an inch,” said Tom. Then nearer 
and nearer, ridge succeeding ridge like an ocean 
struck motionless, the hills swept up to their feet. 
In a thousand curves and windings, each ridge, each 
little sheltered valley with its own individual hue and 
form, and yet all merging together in such a harmony 


Into the Wilderness 


161 


of shades, such a perfect blending of colors as no art 
of man ever has been, or ever will be able to imitate. 

Here and there, scattered among the hills, were 
little groves of great pines, “ pine islands ” Tom called 
them, and the name was wholly appropriate. These 
shone dark and lustrous among the surrounding ocean 
of light gray green of young oaks, and the darker 
green of elm and hackberry; while flashes of pink 
showed where the red buds were flaming like the 
veritable burning bush of scripture. 

Along the sides of the hills, the last remnants of the 
fog lay like shreds of snowy lace; in a distant valley 
they caught the glint of running waters, where the 
Gasconade wound its tortuous way through the hills. 
Close at hand a great gray bluff reared its bare fore¬ 
head to the sky, and its reflected form in the pool at 
its foot made it seem to tower five hundred feet in air. 
All around them the rugged hillsides were spangled 
with wild flowers. Big purple hearted wild pansies; 
snowy anemones; violets blue as summer skies; 
and on the faces of the bluffs, or rooted in the crevices 
of great boulders the scarlet and gold bells of the 
columbine swung on their slender stems. 

“ Oh Norman darling, isn’t it just heavenly! ” 
cried Mary. And Manning, drawing in life and health 
with every breath of the air laden with balsam of pine 
and perfume of flower, pressed her dear hand and 
answered: “ Yes, Mary, that’s the word, ‘heavenly.’ ” 

But it is ever but a short step from the sublime to 
the ridiculous, and into the rapture of his passengers 


162 


A Drama of the Hills 


broke the heavy voice of Tom Leathers: “ I done told 
ye Fd show ye a look at God’s kentry, didn’t I? 
Well kentry’s all right enough, and maybeso its 
‘ heavenly ’ too, but as fur me I jest nacherly bleeve 
that a good hot pone of corn bread, and a slice of 
fried bacon, and a cup of coffee ’ud make it seem a 
heap heavenlier nor it do! ” 

“ Tom, you dear old sinner,” cried Norman at 
this, “ stop talking about bacon and pone and coffee! 
it makes me so hungry I don’t feel as if I could wait 
to have it cooked! ” 

“ There,” said Mary, “ clapping her hands, “ that’s 
the best news I have heard in a month! you say you 
are hungry! actually hungry! now I’ll have you with 
your strength back in no time. Tom, can’t we build 
a fire right here, and let me get breakfast? ” 

“ No not right hyar Miss—Mrs.— durn hit all I’ll 
jest say Mary and let hit go at that! This hyar is a 
leetle too open. We ain’t clar of the Walton stompin’ 
grounds yit. But jest ahead, maybe half a mile or sech 
a matter is a little holler off to one side of the road. 
Thar’s a spring thar, and sech a thicket of red cedar 
as would hide a dozen waggins like they was in a 
pocket. I’ll purty nigh run this hyar team of hosses 
till we gits thar, fur I’m that hongry I could eat a 
side of sole leather plumb raw! ” 

So into the hollow the wagon was driven; a fire 
was kindled well down between two rocks, and in 
a short space of time Tom Leathers was enjoying his 
“ hot pone, fried bacon, and coffee.” Shortly Manning 


Into the Wilderness 


163 


found himself facing a tray of deliciously browned 
chicken, hot biscuits, and a glass of milk, mostly from 
the great hamper packed by Aunt Mandy’s thoughtful 
hands. Then, as a final treat, Mary poured him a 
glass of the port wine which Doctor Manderson had 
prescribed and provided. What a meal that was! 
In the aromatic cedar thicket, with the birds trilling 
a score of different tunes around them; the soft May 
breezes breathing through the hills; the horses con¬ 
tentedly munching their corn; and over, and around, 
and through it all, the rapturous knowledge that they 
were free, together, and on the highway to life, 
strength and health once more. 

But they were soon to learn that they were not yet 
out of the danger zone, for as they chatted and ate 
seated in the wagon, Tom Leathers raised a quick 
warning hand, and motioned them to lower their 
heads below the sheltering wagon top, and along the 
road, not a hundred yards away, there passed four 
men on horse back, going in the direction from which 
the fugitives had come. 

“ Now, then,” said Tom, excitedly, “ we got to git 
outten this. Ef one of them ornery cusses sees my 
waggin tracks, and gits to studyin’ that he didn’t 
see ’em afore he passed hyar, hit’s jest like ’em to 
come a’smellin’ round to find out who I be, and why 
I got offen the road.” 

So the canvas curtains were tightly drawn once 
more and Tom hitching his team to the wagon in all 
haste, made his best speed out onto the road again. 


164 


A Drama of the Hills 


The result proved not only their guide’s wisdom but 
also the peril which yet surrounded them. For hardly 
had they regained the road and resumed their journey, 
when they heard the beat of galloping hoofs rapidly 
drawing near them from the rear. In a few minutes 
the four horsemen caught up with them. 

Under the canvas cover Manning lay upon his bed, 
while Mary with pale cheeks sat by his side. In her 
hand was her father’s great revolver; it was tightly 
clasped, and her thumb rested on the hammer ready 
to raise it for instant use. Her lips were pale, but her 
eyes flashed, and her hand was firm as iron, and her 
husband as he looked at her, realized that if an at¬ 
tempt were made to capture him, here was a potent 
and deadly peril which his enemies would first have 
to reckon with before a hand could be laid upon him. 

“ Hello stranger! ” said the foremost horseman, as 
he drew rein at the side of the wagon, “ whar was ye 
when we passed along jest now? ” 

“ Hello yourself, stranger,” Tom replied, “ Ef 
ye must know, I were down yander at the little Cedar 
Spring, cookin’ and eatin’ my breakfast, and a’ feedin’ 
my horses.” 

“ Well we come across yer tracks sudden like, and 
we jest rid back to see what had become of ye.” 

“ Why much ’bleedged stranger fur ye takin’ all 
that trouble. Not’s I know it war needful, ye should 
know whar I were, but jest friendly like. I seen you 
fellers all right frum the cedars. Well so long boys; 
I’ve got a good forty mile to drive afore night to git 


Into the Wilderness 


165 


to my brother’s over on Roubidoux, in Pulasky 
County, and I cain’t set hyar a’gabbin’ with ye.” 

And with a touch of his whip the horses resumed 
their trot, leaving the four horsemen to go their way, 
which they did much to the relief of our travelers. 
But the incident had served a good purpose, for it 
made them redouble their precautions against dis¬ 
covery, and Norman and Mary kept closely hidden all 
day. Not even when Tom stopped to feed himself and 
his team at noon did they show themselves outside of 
their canvas shelter. But when night at last came 
again, clear and star lit, and Tom declared that after an 
hour’s halt he should keep on their way until the moon 
set about midnight, the canvas was rolled back, and 
the lovers, with clasped hands enjoyed the quiet night. 

The road was again following a winding ridge and 
was as smooth as a park highway. The stanch horses 
trotted steadily along with jingling of harness and 
rattling of wheels: the perfumed breath of sleeping 
flowers was upon the soft night air; now and again 
they heard the distant baying of a watch dog, or the 
mournful hooting of an owl, and once that rarest 
sweetest sound of an Ozark spring night, the full- 
throated song of a mocking bird, making the very air 
throb with the ecstasy of his melody. At last as the 
moon went down behind the western hills, the wagon 
was drawn into the curve of a little valley, out of 
sight and hearing of the road; the tired horses were 
fed, and soon silence and slumber brooded over valley 
and sleepers alike. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

A Bird in the Bush, but None in the Hand 

As the date set for the execution of Norman Man¬ 
ning drew near the excitement spread and deepened. 
It is doubtful whether any other event in the history 
of Lafleet County had ever so stirred and interested 
the inhabitants. The brutality of the crime for which 
Manning had been sentenced to death; the relentless 
and determined way in which the entire relationship 
of the murdered man pressed the case; pressed it, 
too, in spite of the doubt of the prisoner’s guilt, a 
doubt that had grown from day to day from the very 
hour of the crime. The mysterious and romantic 
manner in which Manning escaped the mob, taking 
with him the sheriff’s daughter; and to cap the climax 
the instant and total disappearance of the pair. All 
these things had, with a thousand variations, been 
discussed in every corner of the county for weeks 
past, to the exclusion of almost all other subjects. 

Three weeks before the day set for the execution 
oil was poured upon the flames of excitement by the 
posting at cross roads, on fences and buildings, and 
in all the stores and blacksmith shops of the region, 
of flaming posters with the offer of rewards totalling 
one thousand dollars, for the apprehension of Norman 


A Bird in the Bush , hut None in the Hand 167 

Manning. Of this sum the Waltons had subscribed 
five hundred dollars; the Governor had added three 
hundred dollars in behalf of the state of Missouri; 
and the county court of Lafleet County had voted 
two hundred more from the county treasury. This 
reward, the largest ever offered in the region up to that 
time, had started not only half a dozen would-be- 
sleuths of the neighborhood in desperate search of 
the fugitive, but was of sufficient consequence to 
attract the attention of the great detective agencies of 
the large cities. So for some time mysterious strangers 
quietly stepped from the trains passing through 
Labrador, prowled about the neighborhood for a few 
days, and disappeared as mysteriously and quietly as 
they had come. 

Newspaper reporters, too, by the dozen came, and, 
eager for a good story which should be a “ scoop ” for 
the papers they represented, proved easy victims to 
the dramatic ability of Uncle Littleberry Smallwood. 
That little veteran’s lurid, and wholly imaginative 
description of the deeds of the mob in their attack upon 
the jail; the desperate resistance rendered by himself 
alone and single handed, through which resistance it 
was that Mary Morton was able to escape with the 
prisoner and board the train for St. Louis. All these 
made excellent “ copy ” and were eagerly swallowed, 
elaborated, and printed. But to Uncle Littleberry’s 
credit be it said, that in no single instance did he give 
his inquisitors the slightest clue to the actual circum¬ 
stances of the flight, or the direction in which the 


168 


A Drama of the Hills 


fugitives had fled. Steadfastly the little man stuck to 
his first romance of an escape upon the train for St. 
Louis. And so strenuously had he asserted the state¬ 
ment that he not only had a strong following who 
accepted it, but in the course of many and elaborate 
repetitions had almost come to believe it himself! 

But neither local detectives or city sleuths; neither 
editors of country weeklies, or sharp city newspaper 
men, were able to unearth a solitary clue explaining 
the escape and present whereabouts of the pair who 
had left the jail together that dark night in early May. 

Manning’s disappearance had in one way blocked 
the efforts of his friends in his behalf. There could of 
course be no appeal to the Supreme Court for a man 
who at the time of that appeal was in the eye of the 
law, a fugitive from justice. Colonel Barton had con¬ 
sulted long and earnestly with Doctor Manderson 
upon this phase of the case. Both felt that if they 
should get into communication with Manning and 
urge him to return and surrender himself in order to 
perfect an appeal, he would certainly do it. But both 
of them, and especially the doctor, felt that should the 
fugitive be locked up in a narrow cell for the two or 
more years which it would take for his case to per¬ 
colate through that “ Circumlocution Office,” the 
Supreme Court of Missouri, it would be sending him 
to death by inches. 

“ No,” said the doctor at last, “ Colonel he wouldn’t 
live through it. He would be dead inside of six months 
I am sure. With the best of care, out door life, and 


A Bird in the Busli , hut None in the Hand 169 

fresh air, it will be years at the best before his nervous 
system will recover from the shock of his arrest and 
conviction, and the attack of brain fever which fol¬ 
lowed. No sir, it's up to you and me to keep on the 
hunt for evidence that will clear him. Then we can 
call him home, get a new trial and set him free.” 

“ Yes,” said the Colonel, “ I believe we could get a 
new trial if we could argue it before the Supreme 
Court, but that is only a chance at best, for I tell you 
Doc., they came d—d near making an air tight case 
against the boy. And if it went against us again 
there’d be no chance for a second escape. No, as you 
say, we must do our best, leave well enough alone, and 
work like the deuce to find Jake Branson; D—n his 
cowardly soul, he is the man that did the murder, as 
sure as there’s a God in Israel! ” 

But Branson, too, had disappeared in the most 
astonishing manner. So far detectives in the doctor’s 
pay, and rewards offered in scores of newspapers, had 
alike failed to give a hint as to his whereabouts or 
the slightest indication that the scamp was still 
above ground. 

At length the twentieth of June came and went. 
Hundreds of people again gathered in Labrador. 
Especially were the Waltons in evidence from the 
least to the greatest. But beyond the poor satisfaction 
of talking over again the thousand times talked over 
incidents of the famous case they had no recompense 
for their journey to the county seat. For no gallows 
raised its grim shape in the bright June sunlight; 


170 A Drama of the Hills 

no noose swung in the soft summer breeze; no despair¬ 
ing prisoner went trembling to his doom. So far as 
any except a faithful few knew, Norman Manning and 
Mary Morton were as if they already slept in the old 
cemetery on the hill. Only in a few true hearts was 
the secret of their escape hidden, and to these neither 
the promise of untold gold, or the fear of the law, 
offered the slightest temptation to betray the fugi¬ 
tives. 

It was the morning of the third day of their flight 
when Tom Leathers turned and said to his passengers: 
“ About five mile over yan ’away is an old hunting 
camp of mine. Hit’s purty nigh the middle of six or 
eight mile square that ain’t got nary house nor livin’ 
man into hit. We used’er call hit the 1 Little Wilder¬ 
ness,’ to tell hit frum the Irish Wilderness which is a 
heap bigger and lays over in Oregon, and Cyarter, 
and Ripley counties, across yan way. This hyar camp 
of mine used ’er have a purty tight roof, a puncheon 
floor, and a stick and clay chimley, and I ’low I kin 
fix hit up right comf’table fur yous to stay in fur a bit; 
thar ain’t another sech a hidin’ place in all Missoory. 
Thar’s a cold spring clus to the door, and all sorts of 
turkey and squirrells, and once in a bit a deer. I’m 
a’tellin’ ye hits one of these hyar ‘pleasure resorts ’ 
the news papers tells about! ” 

As the blacksmith talked they drew to the top of a 
long and rocky hill they had been slowly climbing, and 
letting his horses rest, Leathers pointed with his whip 
and said: 


A Bird in the Bush , hut None in the Hand 171 

“ See that thar high bald hill over yander? That 
thar is 1 Bald Jimmie/ and the camp I be’n a’tellin’ 
ye about is on a little holler about a quarter over 
bey ant the bald.” 

“ Well,” said Mary, “ this is certainly rightly 
called a 1 wilderness/ although I don’t think it should 
be called ‘ little.’ But it ought to be safe for Norman, 
and he should get well here if anywhere on earth. 
And that makes me love every rock and pebble, and 
tree and bush, in all the great lonely beautiful 
place.” 

And Norman Manning, looking into the flushed face 
and the deep gray eyes of the girl who had so joyfully 
given up all for him, drew her to him and kissed her 
lips without a word. In the course of an hour they 
skirted the base of the towering bald hill, that rose 
five hundred feet above them, and following a little 
valley soon came in sight of the shelter, to reach which 
they had circled through more than a hundred miles of 
the roughest part of the Ozarks. 

The little cabin stood upon a level bench of perhaps 
half an acre thrust out from the body of the hill. 
Behind it a great stone buttress of the “ Bald ” raised 
an impassable barrier a hundred feet in perpendicular 
height, from which the cedars and pines waved ever¬ 
green banners, and tens of thousands of columbines 
swung in the breeze. On either hand, forming the 
sides of the valley, were lower ramparts of limestone, 
which ran parallel for a few hundred feet and then 
curved towards each other until there was left only a 


172 


A Drama of the Hills 


narrow gateway, hardly wide enough to allow passage¬ 
way for a single wagon. The valley faced to the east, 
and from the entrance the ground fell away rapidly 
to the valley of a tributary of Current River, five miles 
away. 

“ Thar’s a homesteader or two purty well down the 
branch, nigh the river,” said Leathers, “ but they 
don’t never have no call to come up around hyar 
unte’l huntin’ season of a winter. And the nighest of 
’em is five mile away.” 

“Now Norman,” cried Mary, as she jumped from 
the wagon to the ground, “ let’s go and inspect our 
house. My! don’t that sound grand, ‘ our house! ’ ” 

“ If I had any use of myself,” answered Norman, 
“ I’d chajlenge you to a foot race, to see which of us 
should enter our own door first. But as it is I’ll have 
to act the sedate old man and limp along at the end of 
the procession.” 

“ You poor dear,” she replied, “ nobody shall run 
off from you, and you shan’t be left to limp along alone 
either, so there! ” And there was a sound that re¬ 
minded the listening Tom Leathers, of paying of 
“ Forfeits ” in the games in the old schoolhouse of his 
boyhood! 

So arm in arm the pair made their way to the cabin, 
while the blacksmith busied himself in caring for his 
horses. The door was fastened with a rude wooden 
hasp, which being cast off by Norman the hinges 
creaked and the door swung wide disclosing a primi¬ 
tive interior. One end of the room was nearly all 


A Bird in the Bush , hut None in the Hand 173 

taken up by a fire place, built in pioneer fashion of 
logs, fitted together at the corners and lined with flat 
stones held in place by a thick coating of clay. Above 
the fireplace itself rose a “ stick and clay ” chimney 
of split oak strips, laid up “ cob house fashion,” and 
also lined inside with a coating of clay. Fifty years 
ago there were many hundreds of such fire places and 
chimneys throughout the Ozarks, but with many other 
inventions of the pioneers they have passed away. 
Two small windows served to let in a flood of light, and 
the floor of roughly split “ puncheons ” was whole and 
in place. In a word the little cabin needed but small 
repairs to render it proof against any weather liable to 
come in the time its present tenants expected to 
occupy the place. 

Soon Leathers cut a dozen slender hickory saplings, 
and built in one corner of the room just such a bed¬ 
stead as our pioneer forefathers slept upon two cen¬ 
turies ago. On this he laid armfuls of aromatic cedar 
and pine boughs, and when Aunt Mandy’s great 
feather bed was placed upon this sub-structure of 
evergreen Norman declared it made a bed fit for a 
king’s palace. 

All day Tom Leathers busied himself in providing 
for the comfort of the tenants of his hunting camp. 
He cut and hauled and split so much fire wood that 
Mary declared that he must believe they were to stay 
all winter. He laid a rude shelf of trimmed saplings 
and put on it the store of provisions which had formed 
an important part of his load. With the axe as his 


174 


A Drama of the Hills 


only tool he built a table in the center of the room, and 
two rude chairs which, cushioned with a folded blanket 
apiece were as comfortable as the most elaborate work 
of the cabinet maker. Upon a pair of antlers over the 
door he hung a sixteen shot Winchester rifle and a light 
single-barrel shot gun, and he stored away such an 
amount of ammunition that one might have supposed 
he expected the cabin was destined to stand a pro¬ 
tracted siege. He gave Norman directions for finding 
a neighboring stream, which being fed by cold springs 
was “ alive and kickin' with these hyar fish the city 
fellers calls ‘ black bass,’ although we boys allers calls 
'em jest 1 trouts.' " And he added to the other sport¬ 
ing material a jointed fish pole and its equipment. 
“ Thar young folks," he said, when late in the after¬ 
noon he rested from his labors, “ I don't see ary 
'nother thing I kin do fur ye, does ye? " 

“ Oh, Mr. Leathers," cried Mary, “ it's just wonder¬ 
ful how cozy and comfortable you have made every¬ 
thing. It couldn't be made better in any way I can 
think of." 

“ I only wish we had some books," said Norman, 
“ I don't see how I happened to forget them." 

And at that Tom Leathers sprang to his feet and 
dashed out of the door so suddenly that his auditors 
feared he had taken offence at something. But he was 
back in a few minutes, and on his shoulder a box — 
evidently a load even for his iron frame. 

“ Like to hev plumb forgot the durned things," he 
said, “ I never were much fur book lamin' no way, 


A Bird in the Bush , hut None in the Hand 175 

and ef ye hadn’t a’named hit I’d a’hauled the box 
home agin. Old Doc, he put them in, and when I 
sorter kicked at bringin’ sech a swad of ’em he jest 
laffed and said he ’lowed you’d read ’em all in a few 
weeks. But I reckin he were shore foolin’, fur sartain 
no human could read that many books in ten year! ” 

And when the box was opened it proved to be a 
perfect mine of enjoyment for those to be left in the 
wilderness. Their old favorites in fiction were all 
there, and some of the best of later publications. 
There was a big bundle of magazines, and history, and 
travel, and “Yes,” shouted Norman, “ if the dear old 
boy hasn’t put in some of Colonel Barton’s law books! 
just the ones too that I need to read next. Well, as 
Uncle Littleberry would say ‘ this do plumb settle 
it! ’” 

So when big Tom bid them good bye next morning, 
promising to call as he returned from his timber 
inspection, he left them not only safely hidden from 
their enemies, but with all their needs, both bodily 
and mental, provided for beyond anything they had 
believed possible. And when some two weeks later the 
honest fellow called on his return journey, he was told 
to report to the faithful friends in Lafleet County, 
that they were safe and happy, and gaining in health 
and strength with every passing hour. 

And when Harry Morton got that message from his 
darling, he said to Colonel Barton: “ Makes me think 
of the old hymn my mother used to sing: 1 God moves 
in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.’ And, 


176 


A Drama of the Hills 


Colonel I shore believe it were Him as done hit. This 
hyar whole bizness is a’goin’ to be dared up some 
surprizing way, we ain’t none of us a’knowin’ how.” 
And in the strength of that belief Harry Morton went 
his way for many days. 


CHAPTER XIX 
The Refuge and the Flight 

And so spring merged into summer, and summer 
neared its close. Once only, since Tom Leathers had 
left them on his return trip, had the exiles in the wilder¬ 
ness cabin heard from the outside world. Late in 
July they had been delighted by a call from two most 
unexpected visitors. One was of course Tom Leathers, 
and the other was none less than Doctor Manderson 
himself. 

“ Tom made me such a glowing report of my tie 
timber, and such a tempting description of your loca¬ 
tion here, and the wonderful bass fishing, that I 
decided to combine business with pleasure and take a 
week out in the woods. To tell the truth, Mrs. 
Manning/’ he added with a twinkle of his dark eyes, 
“ I was concerned for my patient! Afraid lest you had 
failed to care for him properly, and that I should 
find him not much more than a living skeleton.” 

“ A skeleton indeed! ” laughed the happy girl wife, 
“ look at him! his own estimate is that he has gained 
fifty pounds in weight. And then those awful whisk¬ 
ers! I do believe he could go back to Lafleet County 
without any risk of recognition! ” 

Indeed Mary was not much out of the way in her 


178 


A Drama of the Hills 


comments on her husband's changed appearance, and 
the old doctor's happiness at the swift recovery of the 
young man's health was as great as even Mary could 
have asked. 

“ I tell you," cried the doctor, “ there never was 
such a tonic as this glorious Ozark air. And when it is 
combined with these grand woods, and hunting, and 
fishing, and a comfortable camp, and last and best the 
finest little woman in all Missouri to pet and coddle 
you, why bless my soul Manning, all the troubles that 
wretched murder brought to you were cheap pay for 
what they have given you! Regular bargain counter 
deal for you! " And his laugh roared back from the 
bluff behind the house, as if all the gnomes of the 
mountain had awaked and joined in the chorus. 

But Norman Manning's smile as his eyes sought 
those of his wife, meant more than all laughter; and 
his voice quivered a trifle as he said: “ Yes, Doctor, 
you are right. Such friends as yourself, and uncle 
John, and Tom, and Colonel Barton, would be cheap 
even at the price that I have paid. And when I think 
of the wife I have also, why I would be bankrupt even 
if I had the whole world to apply on the debt." 

A happy week passed. The Doctor and his whilom 
patient roamed the hills after squirrels, and whipped 
the streams for the gamy bass. And, after the man¬ 
ner of true sportsmen, their hearts knit closer each day. 
But the week drew to a close, and in the morning the 
visitors were to start on their return journey. The 
little group sat around the handful of fire upon the 


The Refuge and the Flight 


179 


hearth, burning there as Mary said, “ for coziness,” 
and not because the warmth was needed, and con¬ 
sulted about the future of Manning, and the further 
steps to be taken in his behalf. 

“ Both Mary and I would be glad to stay right 
here,” said Manning, “ but Tom insists that it would 
be dangerous, and exceedingly likely to result in my 
capture and return to jail.” 

“ Yes Doc.,” spoke Leathers, “ ye see hit’s this 
away; these wilderness woods is a reg’lar stomping 
grounds fer hunters every winter. Thar’s a passle of 
St. Louis fellers camps between hyar and Current 
River every year. Some of ’em ’ud be shore to hev 
heered of the ruction Norman and Mary kicked up; 
and even ef none of ’em ketched into who these folks 
was, they’d be a’tellin’ of the handsome feller and his 
purty little wife they found livin’ into a pole shanty in 
Little Wilderness woods. And that ’ud be all some 
sharp nosed detective ’ud need to start him a’smellin’ 
around down hyar, and the fat would all be in the fire 
then.” 

“ Tom is undoubtedly right, Norman,” said the 
Doctor, “ and unless we get hold of some new evidence 
soon, or get our hands on that rascal of a Branson, I 
think that you and Mary had best prepare to move 
away from here.” 

Then the question naturally arose as to whither 
they were to flee. Southern Missouri, or its imme¬ 
diate neighborhood was certainly barred. There was 
hardly a cross roads in the region where Manning’s 


180 


A Drama of the Hills 


picture was not posted, with the offer of one thousand 
dollars for his apprehension. Indeed, as the little 
group counselled together it seemed as if every door 
was closed against the fugitives, and Manning’s face 
showed the discouragement he felt. 

Thus they had considered and rejected one locality 
after another and had sat in silence for some minutes, 
when Leathers suddenly exclaimed: “ Why blame 
my picter, I bleeve I know the very place fur ye to go. 
That is right plumb into the Cumberland Mountains 
in old East Tennessee. I were borned thar myself, in 
Roane County, and whilst I never went back after 
leavin’ thar twenty-five year ago, I know hit cain’t 
hev changed much. Norman, thar’s places amongst 
them mountains that is fifty mile from railroad or 
telly graph office. Whar nary newspaper never comes, 
and durned few of the folks would know what to 
do with one ef hit did come. And them hill folks ain’t 
nobody’s fools neither, ef they ain’t much on book 
lamin’. They’d shore stand by you right efsobe they 
onst tuk a likin’ to ye, and there were need for any¬ 
body a’helpin’ of ye.” 

The doctor, too, was of Tennessee Mountain stock, 
and he at once looked favorably on Tom’s suggestion. 
The more the little council considered it, the more it 
was impressed upon them that the Cumberland 
Mountains should furnish a safe harbor for the 
fugitives, until a change for the better might alter 
their fortunes. 

“Well suppose it is to be East Tennessee,” said 


The Refuge and the Flight 


181 


Norman, “ how are we to cover the three or four 
hundred miles between here and there, without 
discovery? ” 

“ Now let me answer that please/’ spoke Mary, 
“ and then if any one has a better plan to suggest let 
him present it. You all know that I am an Ozark 
backwoods girl. Dear old Daddy insisted on giving 
me a good education, but I have lived most of my life 
on the little farms among the hills. Now Norman, 
with his tanned face and his awful bushy whiskers, 
only needs to put on a blue jeans suit and a slouch 
hat to look a perfect 1 hill Billy.’ He’d have to prac¬ 
tice our Missouri hill dialect so that his speech would 
not betray him, but he can learn that of his wife. 
So let Mr. Leathers bring the blue jeans for Norman, 
and a linsey woolsey dress for me, together with a 
big deep sun bonnet, and I believe we could drive all 
the way to the mountains in perfect safety. Now 
what do you say? ” 

“.Say,” cried the doctor, “Say! why I say that 
it takes a keen little woman to think out a perfect 
plan like that. There is not a flaw in it. Simple, easy, 
and yet absolutely safe.” 

“ Them’s my politics too, Doc.,” rumbled big 
Tom’s bass, “ only I’d change hit a little bit. Let me 
bring on the plunder ye needs, the jeans, and the 
linsey woolsey, the sun bonnet, the brogans, and sich. 
I’ll git back hyar say in about ten days from now. 
Then I’ll take ye in my waggin agin, and drive straight 
east with ye unte’1 we strike the Iron Mountain Rail- 


182 


A Drama of the Hills 


road. Then ye takes the keers fur Memphis. From 
thar ye can git purty nigh the Big Smoky Mount’ins 
of the Cumberlands on the keers. I ’low hit might be 
a good plan to stop off, say at Knoxville, and buy ye 
a team and waggin, and then drive jest whar ye please 
into the mount’ins.” 

And subject to future revision that was the plan 
adopted, and early the next morning the pair were left 
alone in the wilderness cabin once more. Day by 
day, with much laughter and infinite enjoyment 
Manning and his wife engaged in what Mary called 
“ The School of Backwoods Speech.” Mary’s first 
rule for her pupil being that from that hour until the 
need of concealment should cease, she would be 
perfectly deaf to any remark of her husband’s unless 
it was couched in the desired dialect. 

“ Wal,” was Norman’s reply to this, “ Efsobe my 
old woman ’lows thet thar is the law I shore ’low it are 
so. Fur durned ef I bleeve she ever told a he endurin’ 
of her whole life! ” 

“ Fine, fine,” laughed Mary, “ ef my ole man’ll 
jest keep up that lick he’ll git so purty quick he’d 
mighty nigh fool me, although I’m a knowin’ to him 
bein’ jest a pore Illeenois furriner! ” And while 
both shouted with laughter, none the less were their 
efforts to educate Norman’s tongue earnest and con¬ 
tinuous. For it was plainly evident that an incident 
might materialize almost at any moment, when his 
ability to fill the character of an Ozark backwoodsman 
would solve the question of life or death. 


The Refuge and the Flight 


183 


It still lacked a few days of the time set by Leathers 
for his return, and the first banners of the coming 
autumn were beginning to show upon the trees, when 
late one afternoon they heard the rumble of wagon 
wheels, and in a few minutes Leathers brought his 
wagon to a halt at their door. To their eager question¬ 
ing he returned but quiet and unsatisfactory answers, 
and this, so different from his ordinary boisterous 
manner, impressed his hearers and sobered them in a 
moment. 

“ Tom what is it? I know that something is wrong, 
what is it? ” said Mary, but still Leathers was reticent, 
and explained his mood as the result of weariness from 
his long journey. Meanwhile he strove by numerous 
winks and sly gestures to indicate to Norman his 
desire to speak to him alone. But Mary’s sharp eyes 
quickly caught him in the act, and she said, with a 
touch of indignation in her voice: “ Now then Tom, 
that won’t do! Anything Norman should hear I 
should also hear. You ought to know by this time 
that I am not easily frightened, and as I must share 
the danger, it is only fair that I should know what 
it is.” 

Then said Tom: “ Never meant no harm Mary, 
but it allers looks like to me that we men folks should 
keep our troubles to ourselves and not be a’pesterin’ 
our women with ’em. Howsomedever this ain’t no 
common case so I’ll ups and tell ye all. I run across 
that same fool feller what we met up with that mornin’ 
near the Cedar spring. The critter he seemed mightily 


184 


A Drama of the Hills 


tickled at a’meetin’ with me agin, and he axed me 
were I a’goin’ to my brother on Roubidoux again. 
And when I told him I were he jest laffed unte’l 
I were that mad I were ready to break his fool 
neck. 

“ But I helt in best I could, fur I wanted to find out 
what fur a scent this hyar pup ’lowed he were a’runnin’ 
on. So I said, kinder friendly like, ‘ Glad to see ye 
tickle yerself so well stranger, and efsobe ye’ll go 
halves on the tickle maybeso I kin jine in and laff 
too.’ And at that durned ef he didn’t up and say, 
says he: 

“ ‘I ’low that thar brother of yourn ’ud be worth a 
thousand dollars ef ye could find him! ’ Gentlemen ! 
ye could a’knocked me down with a feather! Fur 
thar’s a thousand dollar reeward up fur ye Norman 
ye know ! But I puts on a brash face and I says, 
says I: ‘ What thousand dollars? Thousand dollars 
be durned! Ef ye knows what fool stuff ye are talkin’ 
I’ll be d—d ef I do! So ef ye want to go along of me 
a’smellin’ fur a thousand dollars, I don’t know’s 
thar’s ary law agin hit, but I’d think a heap more of 
your sense ef ye went along about yer bizness, and 
left me go on about mine. Leastway hyar I goes as I 
tole ye.’ And at that I driv’ off with him a’follerin’ 
like a houn’ pup. I struck out plumb North East, 
’stid of headin’ southeast fur hyar, and I driv two days 
and part of two nights afore I wore him out, and he 
tuk hisself off. Then I headed fur hyar and driv like 
the devil hisself, fur I’m a’tellin’ ye that cuss is plumb 


The Refuge and the Flight 185 

dangerous; and we needs to watch him clus or I’m 
mistook.” 

Here was startling news indeed. If one man was 
thus earnestly on a still hunt for them, there were 
certainly others. Now that suspicion had attached to 
Tom Leathers it portended an imminent crisis in 
their affairs. 

“ How quick kin yous be ready to pull outen 
hyar? ” said Leathers after a few minutes. 

“ How quick,” replied Mary, “ why in ten minutes, 
if you and the horses could be ready to start so soon.” 

“ That’s the talk,” added Manning, “ But how 
about the team, Tom. Are they fit to travel tonight? ” 

“ Well,” said Tom, “ looks like to me hits a case of 
having to be fit. The hosses is some tired, but they 
is all right fur a ten-hour straight-away pull all the 
same. And by then we ought to be somewhar in the 
Runnels County hills. I ’low to find some place thar 
whar we kin hide away unte’l night agin, and then 
afore sunup next mornin’ I kin hev ye onto the keers, 
and away ye goes.” 

Then was there wild haste in the little cabin of 
refuge in the wilderness. The horses were given such 
an amount of food as they could quickly dispose of. 
The three comrades worked with all speed in dis¬ 
mantling the place, and packing the few articles to be 
taken with them. As they worked they took a lunch 
“ catch as catch can,” as Manning expressed it, and 
washed it down with hot coffee prepared by Mary 
upon the hearth. They exceeded the ten minutes 


186 


A Drama of the Hills 


first stipulated for, but well inside of half an hour the 
horses heads were again turned towards the rocky 
gateway, and they were fleeing again. 

“ Poor little cabin,” said Mary as she looked back, 
“ it seems wicked to go away and leave it alone again, 
when it has been such a safe refuge for us.” And 
suddenly she threw her arms around her husband’s 
neck and sobbed: “ Oh Norman darling, do you 
think we will ever be safe again? Safe to come and 
go as we choose, instead of fleeing by night and hiding 
by day, like escaped criminals! ” 

Pior Manning, his heart was breaking for her 
sorrow, but he gathered her into his arms and said: 

“ There Sweetheart, don’t give up now, after keep¬ 
ing up so bravely all this time. Yes, I’ll answer your 
question: Yes, the time will come when we will be 
free again. The good time when I can make a home 
for my little girl, God bless her! ” 

And then the eyes he loved so well shone bravely 
through their tears into his own, and the voice that 
had cheered him in his prison cell laughed through its 
sobs, as she said: 

“ Oh what a little coward I am! I don’t know what 
came over me to act so all at once, but there, I’ll 
never do it again. You are right! we will win out! 
We WILL have a home of our own! WE WILL! 
WE WILL! WE WILL! God helping us we will! 
And this is just the next stage of our journey to that 
home and that victory! ” 

“ Thar now, that sounds more like! ” rumbled big 


The Refuge and the Flight 


187 


Tom from the driver’s seat. “ Don’t ye never fergit 
hit, ye are shore booked to win this hyar fight. And 
thar’s a heap more’n me a’sayin’ of hit too.” 

“ Oh Tom,” cried Mary, and she blushed like a wild 
rose as she spoke, “ I forgot all about your being 
within hearing distance! Please forget that you ever 
heard me say such foolish things. And I want to thank 
you with all my heart for your goodness and help in 
all this hard place of ours.” 

“ Now then Mary,” came back the heavy voice, 
“ less said about my 1 goodness ’ the better. I’m 
jest an ornery old rough blacksmithin’ feller. All 
the same I ’low to do my double durndest to fool the 
fools who is big enough fools to bleeve that Norman 
Manning ever done ary mean thing endurin’ of his 
whole life! So hyar I be! ” 

And on through the star lit night the horses plodded 
their way. Climbing long and rocky hills; following 
winding ridge roads; down over the stony ledges 
again into the valley of some dark and swiftly flowing 
stream; through deep and dangerous fords, where 
rushing waters piled high against their sides; through 
woodland and farmland, until dawn found them on a 
lonely and desolate hill side, barren of all growth 
except a few stunted trees and scattered patches of 
prickly pears. At the foot of this hill Tom turned 
sharply to the left, and following a little stream, 
finally reached the cold, clear spring which was^its 
head. 

“ Jest as good,” he said, “ as if hit were made a’pur- 


188 


A Drama of the Hills 


pose fur us,” and at that he sprang to the ground and 
began to unhitch the horses. “ Norman,” he added, 
“ before we lights the fire I beleeve hit would be a 
pious idee fur you to climb that little peaked hill 
yander and see efsobe thar’s anybody in sight. We 
ain’t a’wantin’ no callers today, ef I knows myself.” 
Then Norman having returned from the hill, and 
reported that there was neither man or beast; farm 
or dwelling in sight, the fire was lit and their breakfast 
cooked and eaten. 

As soon as night fell again they were once more on 
their way, and as another dawn drew near they 
sighted in the distance the lights of a little town which 
they knew to be a railroad station. Here Tom halted 
his horses, and according to previous arrangement, 
two jeans and linsey clad forms descended from the 
wagon; shook hands with the honest blacksmith, and 
each carrying an old and well worn carpet sack, 
tramped the road toward town. 

The slouching figure of the man led the way by 
several paces, and he looked not back to see how his 
old woman fared. For were not these two hill folks 
“ goin’ ter Memphis on a big broad! ” 


CHAPTER XX 

Mary Meets Someone She Fears 

Jacob Branson had entered on his residence in the 
mountains of Sevier County, Tennessee, under the 
name of Joseph Mallicoat; a name by the way which 
he stole bodily from an old uncle of his back in Mis¬ 
souri, thereby adding needless proof that he was a 
thief by nature and instinct alike. As has been told 
before, he soon ingratiated himself with the rougher 
element of the mountaineers, and in less than three 
months had so far won their confidence as to be taken 
in as a partner in a moonshine whiskey still, operated 
far back in the wildest part of the mountains. 

Here while he was one of the most liberal patrons of 
the product of the still his natural instinct for accumu¬ 
lating money led him to hoard nearly every cent of his 
own share of the profits of the concern. He carried 
his economy to such an extreme that at times he 
actually suffered both for food and clothing in 
order to increase his store of money. Moreover he 
had in the course of his life spent some years in the 
wild mining camps of the West, and had there learned 
to be an adept in manipulating cards that rendered the 
untraveled mountaineers around him his easy vic¬ 
tims, whenever he could induce any of them to engage 


190 


A Drama of the Hills 


in a game of poker with him. Always when the 
partnership made an unusually good sale of whiskey 
a large part of the proceeds found its way into the 
pockets of Joe Mallicoat by way of the poker route. 

His companions fretted and fumed, cursed and 
threatened that such phenomenal luck as Joe’s was 
bound to be the result of crooked playing. But after 
one or two of them had received terrible chastisement 
at the hands of Mallicoat, and when even the closest 
and most suspicious watchfulness failed to detect him 
in trickery, the consensus of opinion was that “ it 
were shore witch work; and ary feller who wanted to 
keep his money better keep out of any game with Joe 
Mallicoat.” 

Mallicoat, as we must for the present call him, 
was seriously considering a change in his location and 
occupation, when an incident occurred which forced 
him to prompt and decisive action. One day, when 
by the good fortune which he had begun to think 
would never fail him, he was kept closely at home by 
a touch of chills and fever, the United States Marshal 
with a large posse suddenly swooped down upon the 
still in the mountains. Some resistance was offered, 
one moonshiner was killed outright, and all the others 
were captured and carried off to the jail at Nashville. 

Mallicoat chuckled to himself when he heard of the 
raid, for not only had he escaped being identified as 
one of the proprietors of the still, but he had in his 
pocket at that moment no less than three hundred and 
fifty dollars belonging to the partnership. The pro- 


Mary Meets Someone She Fears 191 

ceeds of the last sale, which had as usual been left 
with him until the next gathering of the partners, 
when it would have been divided. 

This money, added to that he had been able to 
accumulate by his various schemes, made a total of 
nearly one thousand dollars, an amount, he decided, 
which would enable him to start in a small way in 
a new location, and at some more remunerative and 
less risky business. So he left Sevier County without 
saying anything to any one of his intentions, and long 
before his partners had been released from jail he had 
disappeared as effectually as once before he had 
vanished from the Ozarks of Missouri. He finally 
located in a remote corner of Roane County where, 
ostensibly as a cattle buyer, but really more as a 
gambler, horse thief and all around rascal, he contrived 
to gather money as only a shrewd, unscrupulous, and 
able knave can. 

One day in late October there came along a rough 
mountain road in Roane County, a two-horse wagon 
driven by a tall and stalwart man, dressed in the rude 
mountain fashion. By his side sat a young woman 
who might or might not be comely of countenance, for 
her face was buried in the depths of an immense 
calico sunbonnet, and wholly h'dden from human 
sight. As the wagon halted at a little stream to allow 
the horses to slake their thirst, there came from 
around a turn of the road, the sounds of shouting, and 
the cracking of a whip which indicated the approach 
of a drover with his “ bunch ” of cattle. Shortly the 


192 


A Drama of the Hills 


animals came in sight and dashed pell mell into the 
water and began to drink. The drover, a very large 
dark faced fellow, upon an immense black horse, 
stopped at the side of the wagon and as his horse drank 
offered the usual salutation of the hills: “ Howdy 
stranger.” 

“ Howdy, howdy,” was the reply, “ right purty day 
we’er a’havin’.” 

“ Travellin’ fur, stranger? ” was the drover’s next 
question. 

“ Well now, maybeso ye can tell us how fur. I’m 
a’wantin’ to git to a little saw mill town name of 
Brock’s Mills, hit’s off this a’way sommers ain’t hit?” 

“ Well hit jest is, stranger,” said the drover. “ Agin 
ye gits fernist that thar high hill yander, ye will come 
to whar the road forks. Ye take the left hand eend 
right thar, and foller the main traveled road and hit 
ain’t more’n five mile to Brock’s. I stays thar myself 
mostly, when I’m to home. Got any kin at Brock’s 
stranger? ” 

“ No, only ’lowed that maybeso I could git work at 
the mill with my team. Much obleedged stranger, 
reckin I must be a moseyin’,” and the wagon pursued 
its journey. 

“ Norman,” said the woman as soon as they were 
out of sight and hearing of the drover, “ I don’t like 
the looks of that man.” 

“ Why little woman,” answered her husband, “ I 
did’nt see anything very bad about him. As Uncle 
Littleberry would say ‘ he won’t never die from his 


Mary Meets Someone She Fears 193 

pretty/ but he did us the favor to put us onto the 
right road, and we owe him that much.” 

“ I know dear, but he’s a bad man. I wish that he 
hadn’t told us that he lives at Brock’s Mills, for I 
shall be in fear of him all the time now.” 

“ Well, Mary, I’ve learned already that there is no 
accounting for a woman’s intuitions, and also that I 
had better trust to yours. So we’ll just put Mr. 
Drover down in our black books, and watch out for 
him.” 

And the future was to prove how truly Mary 
Manning’s quick wit had taken the measure of the 
drover. But not till long after did either Manning or 
his wife learn the true name and record of the man they 
had met upon the road. 


Winter had arrived in full force. The Great Smoky 
Mountains and all their foot hills and surrounding 
ranges were covered deep with snow. Far up upon 
the side of one of the hills lay a little cup-shaped 
depression sheltered from the north winds by a higher 
shoulder of the hill, and here Norman Manning had 
raised with his own hands a two-room cabin of pine 
logs. 

Rude and primitive to the last degree was the little 
dwelling, but within its walls he found such sweet 
home joys, and such safety from those who sought his 
life, that to his latest breath the memory of the 
homely place will be to him as that of a perfect heaven 
below. All day with his team he labored dragging 



194 A Drama of the Hills 

logs from the woods further up the mountain to the 
mill in the valley. The heavy labor, which at first had 
been terribly exhausting, had hardened his muscles 
and broadened his shoulders until one who had known 
him a year before, would hardly have recognized the 
rather slender, smooth-faced schoolmaster of Restful 
district, in the stalwart bronzed and bearded logger 
of the Tennessee Mountains. 

And when the day’s work was done, and the tired 
horses contentedly crunching their grain in the log 
stable, Mary met him at the door with a kiss as dear 
and as sweet as those she gave him when first he was 
her lover in the old jail of Lafleet County. Then 
indeed did he count all his troubles as but the dust in 
the balance, as he held his life’s crowning blessing in 
his arms, and returned to her caress for caress, as on 
that first day, when he had just been sentenced to a 
felon’s death. 

Mr. Joseph Mallicoat had done a good stroke of 
business. He had sold his cattle to a dealer in Knox¬ 
ville at a round advance over their cost to himself. 
He had also managed to slip in with the rest at full 
price, a diseased animal which had cost him a mere 
trifle; and best of all he had met at the tavern a young 
clerk from an adjoining town, and inveigling the boy 
into a game of poker had scientifically “ cleaned him 
out.” Then he had laughed at the young fellow’s 
misery, and refused him the loan of five dollars out of 
the two hundred he had lost to pay his fare to his 
home. 


Mary Meets Someone She Fears 195 

All these things had combined to produce a frame of 
righteous satisfaction in the virtuous bosom of Mr. 
Mallicoat, and he sat in the office of the hotel with his 
chair tipped back, picking his teeth, and apparently 
at peace with himself and the whole world. The 
proprietor entered the room just then with an armful 
of mail from the Post Office, and politely handed his 
guest one of the newspapers. Mallicoat was not much 
of a scholar at best, and the columns of reading matter 
in the news department were almost beyond his 
ability to decipher. So he turned to the advertise¬ 
ments and found the capital letters in the headings 
more within his capacity. Listlessly he glanced over 
column after column. Bargain sales of dry goods in 
Nashville; bankrupt auctions in Louisville; groceries, 
boots and shoes, and what not; they did not interest 
him and he yawned and was about to throw down the 
paper, when a headline in black capitals caught his 
eye: “ ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD! ” 

“ Hello,” he said to himself, “ d—d ef I wouldn’t 
like to collar that thar myself! ” And he proceeded 
eagerly to spell out the advertisement: 

“ The above reward will be paid for information 
leading to the arrest of Norman Manning, who killed 
James Walton in Lafleet County, Missouri, on the 
7th day of January, 188-. Manning is six feet tall; 
rather broad shouldered; dark brown hair and eyes; 
was smooth shaven when last seen, but has probably 
grown whiskers. Was a school teacher but can do any 
ordinary manual labor. Was accompanied by Mary 


196 


A Drama of the Hills 


Morton when he made his escape from the Lafleet 
County jail. The girl is of medium height; has very 
beautiful curly hair of a dark reddish brown, and very 
large dark gray eyes. If still with Manning is prob¬ 
ably his wife. Probable that Manning is going under 
an assumed name. Address any information to Albert 
Walton, Restful, Mo., or to John Hambrick, Prosecut¬ 
ing Attorney of Lafleet County, Labrador, Mo.” 

As Mallicoat realized the meaning of the words he 
so laboriously spelt out, the very icy hand of death 
itself seemed to grip his guilty heart. A voice from 
the dead rang in his ears; a voice forever stilled a 
year ago; stilled by the very hand that now trem¬ 
blingly held the paper. In an instant of time he was 
back in that snow covered valley of the Ozark Hills, 
standing fear stricken over the body of the old man 
extended upon the snow. Again he saw the slowly 
spreading crimson pool, with the gray hair lying in it. 
Again he looked into the glazing eyes, and watched 
the muscles twitch in the last unconscious movement 
of life. 

Ah it was a full year behind him, and hundreds of 
miles away, but if at that moment some one, even the 
veriest stranger, had noticed his agitation and spoken 
to him, he would instantly have confessed all. But 
none noticed, none spoke, and by degrees he regained 
control of himself. He folded the paper and placed it 
in his inside pocket, and soon after betook himself to 
his room. A stiff pull at the flask from his pocket, and 
his fears fled, and his complacency returned. Then 


Mary Meets Someone She Fears 197 

he took the paper and read the advertisement over 
again. “ One thousand dollars! ” he said, and re¬ 
peated the words over and over again. “ God! ef 
I could ketch the feller and send him back, and get 
him hung! Why what ’ud hender me a’goin’ back 
thar? Fd hev my thousand dollars, and what Fve 
picked up besides! D—d ef I couldn’t set up fur a 
regler fust class citizen of Labrydor, and nary body 
short of the devil ’ud ever know it were me as done 
the bizness fur old uncle Jim! And the devil wouldn’t 
tell on me! ” With which comforting reflection the 
virtuous Mr. Mallicoat betook himself to his pillow 
and peaceful dreams. 


“ Mary,” said Manning to his wife, as they sat by 
the fire one night, “ I have an offer of better pay and 
easier work for awhile, and I am puzzled whether to 
accept it or not.” 

“ Why dear,” she said, “ if it is easier work, and 
better pay too, it seems to me you ought not to hesi¬ 
tate. It just breaks my heart to see you have to work 
so hard, so terribly hard! ” 

“ You sweet silly little woman,” replied Manning, 
drawing the beautiful head down upon his shoulder, 
“ I am stronger and in better health than ever before. 
And I’m working for the dearest little girl the good 
God ever gave to a poor fellow.” And then for a few 
minutes the question of the new work went into total 
eclipse, while more important matters were attended 
to! 



198 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Now then,” said Mary, vainly striving to reduce 
the newly released tangle of curls to something like 
order once more, “ suppose you tell me about this 
new work and let us talk it over.” 

“ It’s just this,” said Norman, “ when I was at the 
mill this afternoon with my last load of logs, Mr. 
Harney, who has the largest store in the town, asked 
me if I would contract to do the hauling of his goods 
from the railroad, and also to take out what he has to 
send from here. He said it would require two trips a 
week, and he made me an offer that would more than 
double our income.” 

“ Oh isn’t that grand,” she cried, clapping her 
hands, “ of course you accepted it.” 

“ No dearie I took it under consideration as the 
lawyers say. But I do not know whether I ought to 
accept. You see it takes two days to make the round 
trip, and I would have to be away two nights every 
week. I can’t think of leaving you here alone. No 
I won’t take it.” 

Mary Manning said nothing for some minutes, and 
sat gazing into the fire in deep thought. Then she 
said slowly: 

“ It did sound rather terrifying at first dear. But 
after all what is there to fear? There is nobody 
within half a mile except old man Wallis, just over 
the hill. He is a rough old specimen, but he is wholly 
my slave since the time I took care of him, after he was 
hit by a falling tree. He’d be close by if I needed help, 
which I won’t, and so dear, the court of last resort 


Mary Meets Someone She Fears 199 

hands down its decision, which is that you must 
accept.” 

And although Norman still strenuously objected, 
and blamed himself for having said anything about 
the matter, the “ decision ” of the court held, as all of 
us who have such true hearted judges in our homes 
know that they always do hold. And next morning 
Manning accepted the merchant’s offer. 

He spent a large part of the day fitting heavy bars 
to the door, and shutters to the windows, and although 
Mary laughed at him for it, there was nevertheless 
great comfort for her in the thought of the added 
protection, and yet more in the love that had suggested 
it. So before daylight next morning Norman kissed 
his wife and drove away on his first trip to Knoxville. 
It was a long thirty miles to the historic little city 
and it was necessary to reach it in time to load his 
return freight before night or it would be impossible 
to reach home the next day. But with an early start, 
an empty wagon and a light heart he reached the town 
not only early enough to put his load on his wagon, but 
to make nearly five miles of his return journey before 
he drove into a sheltered little valley and camped for 
the night. 

In the cabin on the mountain side Mary had busied 
herself all day at her simple household duties; had 
sung to keep from getting lonely at the thought that, 
for the first time since her marriage, night would not 
bring her husband to her side. Then, late in the after¬ 
noon she slipped on her sunbonnet and walked over 


200 


A Drama of the Hills 


the hill for a call on old Billy Wallis. The old man’s 
door stood wide open, as indeed it had to if he was to 
have any light in the interior, for the cabin had 
neither window or crevice through which the sun could 
shine. Uncle Billy sat by the fireplace smoking when 
the door darkened and he looked up and recognized 
his visitor. 

“ Why howdy, Mis’ Bennett, Howdy; come right 
in and set by the fire. I ’lowed to hev be’n over 
yisterday to have seed Charlie, but es I gits older I 
gits ornerier and lazier, and I never! ” 

“ Now Uncle Billy, jest you stop a’bemeanin’ of 
yourself,” said Mary, “ any man what’s done as much 
hard work as you have, he’s a right to set by the fire, 
efsobe he wants to. How’s the lame arm coming on?” 

“ Oh hit’s toluble, jest toluble; but hit’s a heap 
better’n it ’ud have be’n ef ye hadn’t a took sech good 
care of hit.” 

“ Well I’m shore glad if I holp it any, I am so. Say 
Uncle Billy, did ye know that I were a sort of a 
widder now a days? ” 

“ A widder,” shouted the old man, “ My soul! 
whar’s my gun! Didn’t know there war any of the 
varmints left in the mount’ins! ” 

“ Oh ye needn’t let on to be so bad skeered,” 
laughed Mary, “ I ain’t to say right dangerous yet. 
But honest Uncle Billy, Charlie he’s gone to Knox¬ 
ville arter a load of goods fur old man Harney, and 
I’m plumb lonesome. I ain’t to say skeered, fur I 
have a mighty good pistol, and I know how to shoot 


Mary Meets Someone She Fears 


201 


hit too, and agin any one tried to break into the house, 
I reckin’ something might surprise ’em! ” 

“ Well now Honey,” said the old fellow, “ I don’t 
more’n half like the idee of ye a’bein’ thar alone of 
nights. Thar’s some powerful ornery men in these 
hyar mountins. But thar, cain’t be much resk fur 
only one night.” 

“ But Uncle Billy,” said the girl, “ hit’s to be a 
reg’ler thing frum now on, two nights every week! ” 
At which old Billy Wallis said nothing, and smoked 
much. 


CHAPTER XXI 

In which Mr. Mallicoat “ Ketches On ” 

But the night passed without an alarm. And while, 
truth to tell, the little woman in the lonely cabin on 
the mountain spent most of the hours of darkness wide 
awake and with the big revolver clasped tight in her 
hand, when the gray light began to sift through the 
cracks and crevices of the cabin, she fell asleep and 
slept for hours. Then, when the long day had passed, 
and just as the sun sank behind the western moun¬ 
tains, she heard the rattle of the wagon coming up 
the stony hill below the house, and in ten minutes was 
clasped in Norman’s arms. 

So the semi-weekly trips to Knoxville continued, 
and the increased income enabled Norman to add to 
the furnishings of the cabin many little necessities 
which they had heretofore denied themselves. Now 
it was a rocking chair, and again a sewing table, or a 
rug for the floor, or a dress pattern for his wife. Until 
that unselfish little lady called a halt, and laid down 
the law that he must cease spending all his money on 
her, and invest some of it for his own comfort. 

“ Why don’t you get something for yourself, you 
great big unselfish thing,” she said one evening 
as she sat upon his knee. 

“ Why little girl,” he answered, “ to tell the truth 


In Which Mr. Mallicoat “Ketches On” 208 

there is not a thing in the world that Fd give a dollar 
for, as long as I have you! ” Which sentiment was 
promptly emphasized and punctuated! 

But over their sky there was rising a dark and 
threatening cloud, although they knew it not. It 
came, as all life’s great changes whether of joy or 
sorrow, always come, when least expected. The long 
immunity from discovery, the happiness of their 
simple life together, had lulled their fears to sleep. 
Indeed they had become to each other in large meas¬ 
ure, Charles Bennett and his wife Ellen. True, in the 
privacy of their home, with the world shut out, they 
still used the old names and took counsel of their 
hopes and fears growing from the tragedy of a year 
ago. But except in these hours, sacred to their inmost 
souls, the old names, and the old fears were alike 
unmentioned. 

One day Norman had gone on one of his regular 
trips to Knoxville. Winter was still with them, and 
snow covered the ground. On the previous day 
Manning had called on poor old Wallis, and found the 
veteran suffering more than usual from his injured 
arm, and correspondingly cross and crabbed. He 
had given to Manning as much of liking and respect 
as he ever conferred upon any man, but today he was 
gruff and short even to him. So when his visitor 
returned to his own cabin he suggested to his wife that 
she run over the next day, and cheer the old man up 
a little. 

It was near the middle of the afternoon before Mary 


204 


A Drama of the Hills 


completed her household tasks, and then she prepared 
a dainty bit of fried chicken, a plate of hot biscuits, and 
other portions of a lunch calculated to sweeten the 
temper, and restore the good feelings of even a crosser 
man than Uncle Billy. With these upon a tray she 
tripped along a path to the old man’s cabin. 

The day was bright with sunshine, but there was a 
shrewd west wind blowing, and a sudden gust caught 
the big blue sun bonnet she was wearing, and tossed 
it back so that it hung between her shoulders, only 
being kept from blowing away entirely by the strings 
under her chin. She trilled a laugh and made haste 
to reach the cabin, and, because both hands were full 
she made no effort to replace the bonnet. The wind 
took full advantage of this and in a second had 
thrust its fingers among her golden brown curls and 
set them to dancing in the sunlight in riotous glee. 

She dashed thus into Uncle Billy’s door, with a 
laugh that made the smoky old hovel tinkle as with a 
chime of fairy bells. 

“ Oh Uncle Billy,” she cried, “ Just look what a 
tousle head I am! Never mind the wind didn’t get to 
blow away your dinner! tried to mighty hard too, but 

-,” and here she suddenly became dumb, for as 

her eyes became used to the dark interior, she saw 
that old Wallis had a visitor. Seated by the fire was 
the man she had dreaded ever since she had been in 
Tennessee; the man of whom she had said to her hus¬ 
band, “ I am afraid of him! ” “ He is a bad man! ” 

And now as she recognized the fellow, and felt upon 



In Which Mr. Mallicoat “Ketches On” 205 


her face his eyes fixed in that steadfast gaze, which 
every pure woman instinctively recognizes as a 
deliberate insult, and resents accordingly, her heart 
stood still with such a thrill of fear and loathing as 
had never found lodgment therein before. 

“ Why Mis’ Bennett,” chirped Uncle Billy, “ ye 
look skeered. Ain’t nothin’ gone wrong with ye is 
thar? ” 

By a great effort she regained control of herself, 
and answered with a pitiful little laugh, “ I reckin I 
were only startled like, not expectin’ of anybody to be 
hyar, exceptin’ of you.” 

“ Well this hyar isn’t nobody but jest Joe Mallicoat. 
He buys steers and cow brutes and sich. I jest sold 
him my old Brindle, or more like I give him the cow, 
fur he only allowed me fifteen dollars fur her.” 

“ Glad to know ye Mis’ Bennett, toe be shore,” 
said the man introduced as Joe Mallicoat, and rising 
he continued, “ Hev a cheer by the fire won’t ye? ” 

Mary will never forget his appearance as he stood 
facing her at that moment. The immense breadth of 
shoulder; the abnormally long arms with the hands 
hanging palm outward as if twisted entirely out of 
joint, the short bull dog neck, crowned by the brutal 
face and head and the square jaws, also patterned on 
those of the bull dog. But she paid small heed to the 
other peculiarities of the creature after her eyes were 
raised and again were caught and held by his. Ah 
those eyes! Small and green as a snake’s, and glaring 
in the semi-darkness of the room like those of some 


206 


A Drama of the Hills 


wild animal at bay! how they shone out of that 
bestial face into hers! Shone out of a face every line, 
and muscle, and feature of which proclaimed a nature 
brutal, reckless, and vengeful to the last degree; and 
more than all else had branded upon it, as the con¬ 
trolling instinct of the man, masterful, beastly, 
compelling lust. 

As the creature gazed into Mary’s face she felt the 
hot blood surging into her cheeks, and her glance, for 
the first time in her life, quailed and fell before the 
glance of another, under the baleful green fire in those 
other eyes. But even as he gazed there flashed upon 
the brute’s memory an amazing thought, and involun¬ 
tarily he muttered an oath, and the unhealthy red of 
his cheeks paled to an equally unhealthy pallor. 

“ Why what’s the matter with you now? ” cried 
Uncle Billy, “ Looks like ye had saw yer uncle’s 
ghost! ” And at the words it seemed for a moment 
that Mallicoat was about to collapse! Just a chance 
word, spoken by a doddering old man, but they 
sounded in those guilty ears like the very sentence of 
death itself! “ Yer uncle’s ghost! ” It was a voice 
from the tomb itself! 

But he set his iron jaws together, and answered: 
“ Don’t ye go to bother yer old fool haid over no 
uncle’s ghost of mine, fur thar ain’t none. Well old 
man I must git along. I’ll send up for yer cow brute 
tomorrer. Good day to ye Mis—Mis’ Bennett, like 
to have forgot that thar name.” And to Mary’s 
intense relief he took himself off. 


In Which Mr. Mallicoat “Ketches On ” 207 


Joe Mallicoat hastened down the steep road toward 
Brock’s Mills, evidently in a state of intense excite¬ 
ment. “ Great Lord A’mighty! ” he muttered, “ hit’s 
her shore’s hell! Every pint the reward notice called 
fur; ‘ mejum height ’; ‘ Hes very beautiful curly hair 
of a dark reddish brown.’ That’s right, d—dest pretty 
hair ever I see! ‘ Very large gray eyes ’; Yes by G—d 
hit’s her! Couldn’t be no two women in the world 
like that to wonst! ‘ Prob’ly married to Manning ’eh! 
Well durn little I keer fur that. I must look up this 
hyar ‘ Bennett ” feller and ef he is Manning shore 
’nuff I’m shore in fur the best thar is. Thousand 
dollars! Clean clar of my troublement fur fixin’ old 
uncle Jim! Manning safely hung, and outten the 
way! And the purtiest woman in all Ameriky right 
whar she cain’t git away or help herself; and I ’low 
to keep her right thar s’long as I please, see! Ef I 
don’t do hit all why I’m the durndest fool in the 
endurin’ world, and nobody never called me a fool 
till yit.” Indeed the cards which fate had dealt him 
were enough to have made a much wiser man than he 
believe that Fortune was constantly working in his 
interest. 

That here, hundreds of miles from the scene of his 
crime, in guilty hiding himself, there should come to 
him without his seeking — first the notice of the 
reward for Manning’s arrest — and now — as it 
were in the hollow of his hand, Manning and Mary 
Morton! A line to the authorities of Lafleet County, 
and within three days Manning would be in the grip 


208 


A Drama of the Hills 


of the law, and on his way back to Missouri and the 
gallows. More to his beastly taste even than that — 
Mary Morton would be left helpless in his brutal 
hands. And, to cap the climax, a thousand dollars 
would be paid him for doing that, which at one stroke 
would free his own neck from the noose; yield him 
sweet revenge, and gratify the strongest desire of his 
bestial nature! 

But like the rattlesnake he must creep stealthily 
upon his victims, so that his blow should be sure and 
deadly. Less honest than the snake, however, he 
would give not the slightest warning. So by the time 
he had reached the little town he had controlled his 
excitement and resumed, as much as possible, his 
ordinary demeanor. Although wild exultation still 
thrilled his wicked heart. 

He knew that Manning was due to arrive on his 
return from Knoxville about sunset of the morrow. 
Before that hour he made his way by a circuitous 
route, to a thicket close behind the Manning cabin. 
Here he hid and waited as quiet as an Indian until his 
patience was almost exhausted, and he began to think 
that for some reason his proposed victim had been 
detained, and would not reach home that night. 

It was evident to the ambushed rascal that Mary 
was troubled at her husband’s delay, for he saw her 
go to the door and listen again and again; and he 
imagined that he heard a sob, as if she were weeping. 
But at last he heard the rattle of wagon wheels on the 
stony road, and knew that the innocent man whom he 


In Which Mr. Mallicoat “Ketches On ” 209 


hoped to send to the gallows for his own crime, was 
at hand. 

Mary too heard the sound, for the door flew open 
and she ran down the path to greet her husband. 
Mallicoat, or as we will now again call him, Branson, 
saw a tall form leap from the wagon and gather the 
girl into its arms. He saw them kiss again and again, 
and heard the wife say: “ Oh Norman darling, I’ve 
been so frightened lest some awful thing had happened 
to you.” 

“ Why you poor little woman, you ought not to get 
the fidgets about me. I got a late start from Knox¬ 
ville this morning, and the roads are in bad shape, 
that’s all.” 

“ Yes dear, I’m foolish I know, but you are all I 
have in the world, and if they got you —! ” 

“ There now my dearest,” the man’s voice said, 
“ don’t study up that old nightmare. Now let me 
put up my horses and then after supper I’ll talk all this 
nonsense out of your head.” 

And the serpent in the thicket hugged himself in 
vicious glee, for the words which he had heard had 
given him all the information he needed to carry out 
the devilish plan which he had so carefully formed. 
Still he lay motionless, and after Norman had gone 
into the house he crept stealthily to the wall, and with 
his ear at a crevice within three feet of them he heard 
every word of the heart to heart talk of the young 
couple. 

He heard Mary tell of her visit to uncle Billy, and of 


210 


A Drama of the Hills 


meeting there “ that awful drover man, that directed 
us to Brock’s Mills that day.” He grinned as he heard 
her tell how terribly he had looked at her, and “ what 
shocking eyes he had.” And how frightened she 
had been. But his grin turned to a snarl of deadly 
hate when he heard Manning say: 

“ The long-armed ape better not scare my little 
girl again, or I’ll break his ugly neck for him! ” The 
face was fiendish now, and he muttered to himself, 
“ Hit’s your ‘ ugly neck ’ that’s liabil to git brokened, 
d—n your soul! ” 

“ But dear,” Mary’s voice continued, “ really I am 
afraid of the creature. And if you are late again I’ll 
bar the door and windows tight and fast as soon as the 
sun sets; and keep them that way till you come.” 

“ That’s just the thing, Girlie,” Norman replied, 
“ and I’ll give you a signal knock on the door, as they 
do in secret societies. Remember now, don’t you 
unbar the door to anybody until you hear five taps 
like this: — One-One-One, Two, Three. See like the 
blows on the bass drum in the brass band. Now I’ll 
give it again on the table here: One-One-One, Two, 
Three. Now see if you can give it, so I will be sure 
that you won’t keep me locked out in the cold! ” 
And laughing merrily now, Mary repeated the signal 
again and again, until they were both satisfied that 
she could give it correctly, and would recognize it in 
any time of need. 

And then the wretch outside crept silently away, 
and hastened to the village. Half way down the hill 


In Which Mr. Mallicoat “Ketches On ” 211 


he could restrain himself no longer, and again and 
again sent the wild Southern yell of sure and certain 
victory, ringing through the silent hills. 

“ Everything,” he cried, “ every d—d card in the 
game by G—d, right into my own hand. Fust I 
writes or wires some of them Lafleet County fellers; 
then I sees Manning off to be hung; then I gets my 
wad of greenbacks; then I jumps my hoss and gits 
back hyar es quick es he can fetch me; then late some 
dark night I gives them five knocks agin that thar 
cabin door; and then—! ” 

And against this simple, and complete scheme of 
blackest villainy, what? Nothing but innocence, 
purity, and the dear God who cares for both! 


CHAPTER XXII 
The Trap is Sprung 

Early the next morning Branson was in the saddle 
hastening to Knoxville. He had spent most of the 
night in sleepless planning of the details of his plot. 
He rather feared to send the notice of Manning’s 
whereabouts direct to the officers of Lafleet County, 
lest they should in some way claim the reward for 
themselves. He had studied long and earnestly 
before a name flashed into his mind that almost made 
him shout for joy at the thought. 

There was in southwest Missouri at that time, a 
man who was in all senses of the word “ a terror to evil 
doers.” Born and bred among the hills, and with 
but the most ordinary education, he had, almost from 
boyhood shown genius of the highest order in tracing 
out crime and bringing criminals to justice. Again 
and again this untrained backwoodsman had taken 
up cases which had been abandoned by the best 
detective talent of the great agencies, and had suc¬ 
cessfully trailed the guilty ones down, and brought 
them to punishment. 

So unerring were his instincts, so certain and infalli¬ 
ble his methods, that he was known far and near as 
“ The human bloodhound.” Grim and unrelenting as 


The Trap is Sprung 


213 


death; an utter stranger to fear; so honest that no 
amount of money could bribe him; he was for years 
one of the most potent checks against crime and out¬ 
lawry in all the region. This man Branson had at one 
time met, and in pursuit of some selfish purpose of his 
own, had done him quite an important service. And 
now the scheming rascal bethought him of the detec¬ 
tive’s offer to return his favor in some way, and he 
resolved to profit thereby. 

“ I bleeve Walt Monroe’ll jump at the chance to git 
Manning. And I know plumb sartin, he won’t want 
all the thousand dollars. Maybeso he won’t take ary 
cent! I’ve heered of him doin’ jest sech a fool trick as 
that afore now! ” 

He reached the telegraph office at Knoxville after 
darkness had fallen, and this suited him exactly, for, 
until his trap was sprung, and Manning safely in the 
toils, he proposed to keep as much as possible in the 
background. He went to the little hotel where he was 
accustomed to stopping when in the town, and after 
supper hastened to the telegraph office. Helping 
himself to a blank he retired to a corner and labored 
long and hard to compose his message to Walter 
Monroe. But when he took the result of his efforts to 
the window, and submitted it to the operator with the 
inquiry: “ What’ll ye charge to send that thar telly- 
gram? ” the young man angrily replied: 

“ What do you mean by handing in such a mess as 
that! I don’t believe you can read it yourself if your 
life depended upon it.” 


214 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Lookee hyar young feller,” snarled Branson, 
“ that thar’s a tellygram, and I don’t want none of yer 
slack about hit neither. I kin pay the damages, and 
I wants hit sent, and purty toluble d—d quick, too.” 

“ Here,” cried the operator, “ no man living could 
make head or tail out of this thing. I won’t send it or 
try to send it. But if you’ll tell me what you are trying 
to get through yourself, I’ll write the message for you, 
and send it.” 

So after much reluctance and profanity Branson 
finally dictated the following message: “ Walter 
Monroe, Labrador, Mo. I have Norman Manning 
located. Will meet you here and show him to you. 

Jake Branson.” 

So the deed was done. Over the head of Norman 
Manning lowered the black cloud of a shameful death; 
and over the innocent head of his wife hung a fate 
much worse than death. And the unspeakable 
scoundrel whose handiwork all this was, returned to 
his inn and slept to dream of the success of all his evil 
plans. For, all theories to the contrary notwithstand¬ 
ing, innocence will toss sleepless a thousand nights, 
where guilt will slumber as a little child. 

Manning’s regular days in Knoxville were Tuesday 
and Friday. Making his return trips on Wednesday 
and Saturday. Branson had sent his message on 
Wednesday, and he planned that Monroe would reach 
Knoxville in time to arrest Manning on Saturday 
morning as he would be about starting on his return 
trip to Brock’s Mills. In order to run no chance of 


The Trap is Sprung 


215 


missing the detective upon his arrival he resolved to 
remain in Knoxville until Monroe came. By the 
exercise of almost superhuman will Branson refrained 
from even a taste of liquor. Too well he knew that one 
glass would instantly call for many others, and that 
he would quickly be in no condition to carry out his 
plans. 

So he kept away from the saloons; refused all invita¬ 
tions to drink; and conducted himself generally in 
such a quiet and unobtrusive way that one of his 
surprised cronies remarked: “ Either Joe Mallicoat 
hes got religion, or he is a’studyin’ some deviltry that 
is wuss than common! ” We already know how true 
to the facts was this last guess. 

Meanwhile other developments were at work in 
such a way as to justify Branson in the belief that the 
fates were laboring in his behalf. For when Manning 
returned to his home from a trip to the village prepara¬ 
tory to his usual journey to Knoxville the next day, 
he said to his wife: 

“ Mary, Mr. Harney said that he might want me 
to drive some thirty miles the other side of Knoxville, 
while I am on this trip. He wants me to bring down 
some goods from a country store up there. Ifc would 
mean four days away from you, and I am not going 
to do it if I can get out of it. But he is such a good 
friend to us, and he offers me double pay for the trip 
too, and I am in a quandry about it.” 

Mary’s face paled a little as Norman spoke, but 
before he ceased the color flowed back into her cheeks 


216 


A Drama of the Hills 


and she was ready with a brave and cheery answer. 

“ Why dear it will be awfully lonesome, but I will 
get along somehow. You cannot afford to decline the 
offer. And Sir, this time remember, if you don’t 
spend some of the money on yourself I’ll — I’ll — 
Yes I will pull your ears for you! ” 

“ Woe is me! ” cried Norman, “ poor hen pecked 
man that I am! ” And so they laughed and jested 
while unseen to them the shadows of the gallows crept 
nearer and nearer. 

Far away among the Ozark Hills Walter Monroe 
had received Branson’s message late Wednesday 
night. Probably he had never struck the trail of a 
criminal with more joy than when he read the words 
telling him where he could lay hands upon Norman 
Manning. In the first place James Walton had been 
his life long friend, and the cruel murder of the old 
man had stirred him as few crimes had ever done. 
Then the strong case made against Manning at the 
trial, followed by his prompt conviction, had con¬ 
firmed the man in the belief that beyond all doubt 
here was the slayer of his friend. Then had followed 
the escape of the condemned man, accompanied by the 
sheriff’s daughter whom too the detective had known 
all her life. And to crown all the instant, total, and 
inexplicable disappearance of the pair. 

All these circumstances had combined to interest 
Monroe in the effort to return Manning to the gallows, 
more than any other case that he had ever worked 
upon. All the months since the pair had vanished he 


The Trap is Sprung 


217 


had done little else than search for them. But tried 
and proved trailer as he was by a hundred tests, he 
was forced to own to himself that, until he read this 
telegram from Knoxville, he had found nothing that 
even remotely resembled a clue. 

Glancing at his watch he saw that by quick action 
he might catch the fast night express for St. Louis, and 
he ran for his home at the top of his speed. He 
snatched the satchel, always ready packed for an 
emergency, told his wife that he would be away for 
several days, and sprinting back to the depot at best 
pace, managed to swing onto the train as it pulled out 
of the station. From St. Louis he wired Branson 
that he was coming, and very early Friday morning he 
stepped from the cars at Knoxville. 

Branson was waiting for him, and took him at once 
to a room in the hotel. Here he gave the officer all the 
facts he had gathered, and proved to him beyond a 
doubt that the man they were after was indeed 
Manning. 

“ Now then,” said Monroe, “ I better wire the 
Governor for extradition papers. Maybe the feller 
will go along without them, but I don’t intend to take 
any chances, and I’ll call for ’em anyway.” 

“ Well git a move on ye then,” said Branson, “ fur 
I ’low he’ll be along here about two hour by sun this 
evenin’. But I bleeve ef I was you, I’d jest put on a 
brash front, and take him anyway. I hev an idee we 
kin git him onto the keers and outten the state ef we 
works hit right.” And as getting extradition papers 


218 


A Drama of the Hills 


was a process that frequently involved the loss of 
much time Monroe decided that, while he would still 
call for them, he would do his best to get along without 
them. 

It was nearly sunset when Manning drove his weary 
horses into the wagon yard near the depot, where he 
was in the habit of camping when in Knoxville. From 
across the street, and standing well within the shadow 
of the building, Branson pointed out his victim to 
Monroe. “ Mighty clean cut, fine lookin’ feller to be 
guilty of killin’ a pore old man! ” was the detective’s 
comment. But he had long since learned not to swerve 
from the course of duty for either appearances or 
sympathy, and he hesitated not in his purpose. 

He had learned that a fast train for the west would 
pass through Knoxville at half past ten that night. 
He therefore planned not to alarm his man until nearly 
time for the train to reach the station. It was sche¬ 
duled to stop fifteen minutes, and in that time Monroe 
hoped by quick work, to arrest his man, manacle him, 
and get him onto the train. If he met with resistance 
which prevented carrying out his plan he would at 
most only have to wait with his prisoner until the 
extradition papers were received. If successful it 
meant getting back to Missouri several days sooner 
than would otherwise be possible. He had his creden¬ 
tials as a regular detective, in his pocket, but preferred 
not to show them, or to make his presence in Knox¬ 
ville known to the local police unless compelled to do 
so. He exceedingly desired to be able to claim the 


The Trap is Sprung 


219 


entire credit of this notable capture for himself. Such 
an addition to his already surprising list of such deeds 
was a reward, to his mind, compared to which the 
one thousand dollars was of small account. Branson 
had early in the day brought up the matter of the 
reward, and had been promised three fourths of the 
amount left after deducting the expenses of the trip. 

All unconscious of the horror reaching out to seize 
him, Manning cared as usual for his faithful horses, 
took his own frugal meal at a little restaurant near at 
hand, and before nine o’clock lay in his wagon wrapped 
in his blankets, sleeping the dreamless sleep of a tired 
and healthy man. 

Suddenly a bright light flashed into the front of the 
wagon and awakened him. “ Get up Manning,” a 
cold voice said, “ you are my prisoner.” “ Your 
prisoner! What for? ” 

“ No time for fool questions now; get up. I’ve got 
the drop on you, and I have the authority to take you 
back to Missouri. Now, will you come peaceably, or 
shall I use force? ” 

Ah the wild horror of that moment! How, in the 
twinkling of an eye had his edifice of safety, built with 
so much care and trouble all these months, fallen like 
a house of cards! “ Back to Missouri! ” The words 
were his death knell. And Mary! Ah God, Mary! 
And at the loved name his very heart stood still. 
Yet here he was in the toils of the law again. No 
chance for escape; no smallest hope for an acquittal, or 
for life itself; nothing to look forward to except that 


220 


A Drama of the Hills 


on the near horizon loomed darker and more threaten¬ 
ing than ever, and not to be denied this time, the black 
outlines of the gallows. All these and a thousand such 
thoughts surged through his mind in an instant of 
time, and then in a voice as calm and quiet as ever, he 
made answer: 

“ Sir, if you are an officer of the law show me your 
credentials, and I will go with you without resistance.” 

“ Well you are wise and it’ll be none the worse fur 
ye I can tell ye. Here’s my detective card. I wouldn’t 
wonder ef ye have heered of me afore this.” 

“ Walter Monroe, yes I have heard the name. 
And I have heard too that while you were stern you 
were also kind and just. I would like to send a line to 
my wife before we start if I may.” 

“ Your wife! Is that Mary Morton? ” 

“ She was Mary Morton before we were married; 
but the ceremony was said within ten miles of Labra¬ 
dor, the night we escaped from the mob.” 

“ Well Manning,” said Monroe with a touch more of 
feeling in his voice, “ I will say that I have knowed 
Mary Morton sence she were a baby. One of the 
worst things I had agin you was that you got her 
away, and her good name was smirched. I’m ashamed 
now that I ever let the clack of a lot of d—d fools 
make me half think hit. I might hev knowed she 
were too good a girl to do sech a wrong as that.” 

“ My God! ” said poor Norman, “ I’d want to kill 
the man who would say anything against my wife. 
That—that—horrible charge, is worse than the charge 


The Trap is Sprung 


221 


of killing Jim Walton, and God knows I am equally 
innocent of both.” 

“ Well come on now. Train is half hour late and 
you can write your letter in the depot. I know a 
feller who lives in that neighborhood, and I’ll give it to 
him to take to her.” 

So the poor boy wrote his pitiful little note, well 
knowing how the tidings it bore would break the tender 
heart he had rather die than pain. “ My Darling: 
The worst has happened, and I am under arrest, and 
am to start for Missouri in a few minutes. You must 
follow as quickly as possible, for you know how I will 
need your dear presence to comfort and help me. 
Don’t be too much cast down my dearest. I do not 
doubt that in some way my innocence will yet be 
established, and that we will have our home in dear 
old Missouri together. God bless and comfort you 
my darling.” 

This note was placed by the detective in the hands 
of the man he had spoken of. A man by the way, who 
kept carefully out of the sight of the prisoner, and as 
the man in question was none other than Jake Bran¬ 
son himself we need not be surprised that Mary 
Manning never received the note! 

Early on the morning after Manning had started 
back to Missouri, Branson appeared at the wagon 
yard, with an order, badly written and worse spelt, 
signed “ Chals bennet,” directing the proprietor of 
the place to deliver his team wagon and harness to the 
bearer. Without much demur the fellow did this, and 


222 


A Drama of the Hills 


Branson climbed to the driver’s seat and drove out of 
Knoxville on a road leading directly away from 
Brock’s Mills. 

He drove all that day, and at night stopped at a 
little mountain town. Before he slept he had sold the 
outfit for three hundred dollars, which he added to 
the amount already in his pocket. Next day by 
walking ten or twelve miles he reached a railroad, and 
by a circuitous route arrived late that night at Knox¬ 
ville. Here he compelled himself to remain in seclu¬ 
sion until about nine the next morning. Then he 
mounted his great black horse and started for Brock’s 
Mills intent on carrying out the blackest villainy that 
even his corrupt heart had ever conceived. 

It was a perfect winter’s day. The sun shone bril¬ 
liantly, and the keen frosty air was like the elixir of 
life. Yet through all these beauties the man rode 
heedless. Holding his head high; meeting and greet¬ 
ing his fellows as cheerfully as if his heart harbored 
not an evil thought. Whistling as unconcernedly as if 
he had not just sent an innocent man to die for the 
crime that he himself had done! And as he rode, ever 
and anon he tapped upon the horn of his saddle: 

“ One — One — One, Two, Three! ” “ One —One 

— One, Two, Three! ” and whenever he did thus his 
face writhed into a baleful grin of hatred, avarice, and 
eager lust. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 

Norman Manning will never forget that journey 
from Tennessee to Missouri in the charge of Walter 
Monroe. He made every effort to keep up courage, 
even taking part in conversation with his custodian, 
and managing to take some little interest in his sur¬ 
roundings, and the country through which they were 
passing. But as a rule he sat in a silence that verged 
closely upon hopeless despair. On his wrists were 
again the shameful handcuffs, and these, try as he 
would to conceal would slip down until they attracted 
the attention of those around. Philosophize as we 
may, innocence wearing the badge of guilt, suffers ten 
fold more than guilt wearing the same badge. 

But time wore on and at last the train rolled across 
the great bridge over the Mississippi into St. Louis. 
There was barely time for them to catch the express 
for the southwest, and Monroe hurried his prisoner 
across from one train to the other, and pushed him 
into a seat without a thought about refreshment. 
Probably he thought it was no worse for Manning 
than for himself. But he had failed to notice, or he 
had forgotten, or he did not care, that the poor 
fellow had hardly eaten a morsel during the entire 


224 A Drama of the Hills 

journey, and was in fact almost reeling with weak 
ness. 

But remonstrance would have been vain, so Man¬ 
ning settled himself to spend a weary night. Then to 
the rhythm of the wheels beating upon the rails there 
dawned in his mind the glimmerings of a desperate 
plan of escape! Again and again he called himself a 
fool to dream of such an attempt. He, a prisoner in 
the hands of one of the shrewdest and most watchful 
of officers. That officer armed, and certain to “ shoot 
first and investigate afterwards.” With his wrists 
held closely together by steel handcuffs! Yes fool 
and blind to entertain such a dream even for a 
moment. 

Still, without conscious volition on his part, the 
thought continually thrust itself upon him. Until 
at last he yielded to it, and set his mind actively at 
work, far more intently than on any problem ever 
before submitted to it, to estimate and weigh the 
chances for and against a successful escape. 

First was the fact that neither himself or his captor 
had slept, except in short and unsatisfactory naps, 
during the entire journey, now twenty-four hours old. 
So far they had occupied a double seat together, 
Manning next to the window, and Monroe next to the 
aisle. So as a first step in his plan, Norman yawned 
repeatedly, and stretched himself as well as he could 
with the handcuffs and the cramped seat interfering. 
In a word he exhibited every symptom of being ex¬ 
tremely sleepy. “ Durned car seats ain’t the best 


Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 225 

places in the world fur sleeping are they,” mumbled 
Monroe. 

“ No,” replied Manning, “ but if a fellow had a 
whole seat he might manage a nap.” Monroe glanced 
through the car. They occupied the rear seat, and the 
rear door was locked. There were but few other 
passengers, and they were all sleeping or trying to do 
so in those twisted and impossible attitudes seen 
nowhere except in a railroad car at night. 

“ Well we ain’t due in Labrydor unte’l four thirty 
in the mornin’, and hit’s only eleven now. I don’t 
mind taking this seat ahead of you, and letting you 
get a little rest if you can.” 

So without further words he moved to the next 
place, and Manning adjusted himself in the seat as 
best he could, and was soon to all appearances sound 
asleep. The truth, however, was that he was never 
so wide awake in all his life, and through his narrowed 
eyelids he watched the figure in the seat ahead of him 
as closely as a man ever watched another in the world. 
Hour succeeded hour, and still Monroe sat bolt 
upright, without evincing a single symptom of sleepi¬ 
ness, and as the time went by Manning’s hopes sank 
lower and lower. Then the brakeman entered the 
car and sat down across the aisle from the detective, 
and the two passed a few commonplace remarks. 
But at last exhausted nature demanded some recogni¬ 
tion from even the iron frame of Walter Monroe, and 
once or twice his head nodded suddenly in spite of 
himself. At length he said to the brakeman: 


226 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Johnny, I wish you’d let me sleep for a station or 
two. I’m mighty nigh dead fur sleep. Wake me up 
along about Dixon won’t ye? ” 

Johnny assenting Monroe sank down in the seat, 
and almost instantly was asleep and snoring loudly. 
Manning’s pulses were now racing madly, and it 
required all his resolution not to betray his condition 
to the brakeman. But he set his teeth and stirred not 
a muscle as he watched, determined that at the first 
chance he would risk all in one desperate break for 
freedom. 

Meanwhile the train rumbled over the bridge across 
the Gasconade River and after skirting the lowlands 
a short distance, swerved sharply to the left and 
plunged into the hills. At the time of his first journey 
to Lafleet County Manning had passed over this part 
of the railway in daylight, and had been astonished 
at the number of short curves, and the steep grades. 
All this was now recalled to his memory, and he re¬ 
solved to make his bid for freedom within the next two 
or three miles. 

He remembered that a short distance from there 
was a siding at which passenger trains seldom stopped, 
and just beyond that point the road struck the cele¬ 
brated Dixon hill, alike the terror and admiration of 
strangers seeing it for the first time. Again and again, 
for a distance of some three miles, the track here forms 
“ double reverse curves,” exactly the shape of huge 
capitals of the letter “ S,” and these curves are fre¬ 
quently on a gradient of more than one hundred feet 


Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 227 

to the mile. It is a region of narrow steep valleys 
around the heads of which the road sweeps in these 
wonderful curves, as it climbs to the more level pla¬ 
teau above. At the time of which we write it was an 
almost unbroken tract of rough and rocky woodlands. 

Manning fully realized the risk he would run in 
springing from a moving train into darkness so dense 
as almost to be felt, and which blocked the windows 
with an impenetrable black curtain. He knew it 
was quite probable that he might spring straight out 
into vacancy, and plunge down a hundred feet to 
instant death. Or he might bring up on a bank of 
sharp boulders, and be crippled or killed in a moment. 
But by this time he was nerved up to a point where he 
hesitated at nothing, and he lay with every muscle 
tense as steel, only waiting the right instant for su¬ 
preme action. 

The engine gave a blast of the whistle for the sid¬ 
ing, but did not slacken speed, and within a few 
minutes he felt the sickening swing of the train, 
almost as if it had left the rails and was being flung 
off into space. This he knew was the first of the great 
curves of Dixon Hill, and as yet the weight of the 
train had not proved sufficient to lessen materially 
the speed at which they were going. But the next 
curve was shorter, the grade heavier, and Manning 
could now hear the hoarse bark of the engine emitting 
the exhaust steam, the certain sign that the great 
machine was putting forth its utmost power to drag 
the train forward. The space of time between the 


228 


A Drama of the Hills 


puffs of the engine grew longer and longer. Slower and 
slower moved the train. Monroe turned in his sleep, 
but thank God he did nob waken. The brakeman, 
three seats to the front, nodded sleepily against the 
cushioned back as he sat. 

Now! Now if ever was his chance! the car started 
on another dizzy swing; then with the spring of a 
panther Manning leaped onto the seat. With all the 
strength of which he was master he launched the heel 
of his heavy logging boot against the sash of the car 
window. The wood was tough and strong but it 
yielded with a crash, and with the sharp tinkle of 
broken glass. In one and the same instant Manning 
realized two things: First that the brakeman had 
raised an outcry; and second that he himself was 
through the window, whether head first or feet first 
he never knew, and was rolling head over heels down 
an interminable bank of frozen clay thickly inter¬ 
spersed with sharp stones and boulders! 

Over and over he rolled, his manacled wrists pre¬ 
venting him from checking himself as he could other¬ 
wise have done. The hard ground and the sharp 
stones hurt him cruelly, and his face and hands were 
cut and bleeding, when at last he brought up at the 
foot of the embankment, with a final hard jolt. The 
train had of course passed on around the curve, but 
he knew too well the indomitable nature of the man 
from whose charge he had escaped, to doubt that by 
this time he too must have leaped from the train and 
was in hot pursuit. So he did not halt an instant after 


Mr . Munroe Meets with a Surprise 229 

regaining his feet, but fled as fast as the nature of the 
ground would permit. At first he was obliged to 
follow along the foot of the embankment down which 
he had rolled, but he soon came to a stone culvert, 
provided for the passage of surface water under the 
fill, and he instantly crept into this. It was a long, 
dark, and rough crawl, but he at length emerged and 
found himself at the mouth of a steep and narrow 
ravine. This led away from the track and he eagerly 
followed it, and after a sharp climb found himself on 
the level space at the top of the ridge, called in the 
parlance of the region a “ post oak flat.” He had 
halted several times in this climb, to listen for sounds 
of pursuit. He strained his ears, but heard nothing 
but the murmuring wind through the trees, and the 
distant whistle of the train. On the level which he had 
reached he was able to make better speed, although 
even here in the intense darkness, and with his help¬ 
less hands, he caught more than one tumble by trip¬ 
ping over fallen branches. 

By this time he was satisfied that he had, for the 
present at least, thrown his pursuer off the track, and 
getting the direction from a glimpse of the North 
star he shaped his course, as nearly as he could judge, 
for Restful. For if many of his enemies were there, 
there too were his staunch friends, John Hampton 
and Tom Leathers. At the very best his condition, 
and the chances of final escape were in the last degree 
desperate. Battered and bruised from his roll down 
the frozen embankment; weak from long fasting and 


230 


A Drama of the Hills 


lack of sleep; hatless, and with clothing torn and 
muddy with red clay, and, worst of all with the hand¬ 
cuffs upon his wrists! Why, the veriest bumpkin 
coming upon him in the woods or on the highway, 
would know him as an escaped prisoner. The weakest 
man he chanced to meet, a group of country lads 
hunting in the woods, could take him prisoner at 
will. All these things came to his mind, and he did 
not fail to take them into consideration. Neverthe¬ 
less he was jubilant over the success, the brilliant 
success, of his escape from the sharpest thief-taker in 
the southwest. And he set his teeth together, and 
swore to play the game bravely to the end, be that end 
what it might. 

And now the reserve strength gathered day by day 
in his heavy labor through the winter, came to his aid, 
and he swung along over hill and valley, through wood¬ 
lands and across cultivated fields, at a pace that 
would have been wholly beyond his power a short 
year before. It was about three in the morning when 
he had escaped, and when the gray dawn began to 
show in the east he estimated that he must have 
covered some ten or twelve miles. This he believed 
to be about one third of the distance he must make in 
order to reach the refuge at John Hampton’s. And 
amidst his hunger and weariness he felt a throb of 
exultation at the success of his flight thus far. 

As the light slightly increased he came to the edge 
of a little clearing lying in the heart of the very thick¬ 
est woods. A straggling rail fence inclosed some five 


Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 231 

or six acres, wherein post oak stumps and last season’s 
corn stalks were about equally numerous. A little 
to the right stood a small log stable surrounded with 
a pole fence. Some fifty yards beyond was a little 
one-room log cabin of the most primitive construction 
possible. The logs which formed the walls were of 
unequal sizes, and had been left with the bark still 
on them. The “ chinks ” had been daubed with 
ordinary red clay instead of being plastered as usual. 
And the stick-and-clay chimney was so poorly con¬ 
structed that it leaned far out from the house, and 
would have fallen if it had not been propped with a 
heavy pole. 

Manning noted that the loft above the stable was 
full of hay, and this decided him to rest here where he 
could lie hidden from anything except the closest 
search, or the merest accidental discovery. So with 
great difficulty, owing to the manacles on his wrists, he 
managed to clamber into the loft, and burrowed into 
the hay far back under the eaves, as completely 
hidden as if at the bottom of a well. And here 
he fell promptly into a profound and dreamless 
sleep. 

How long he had slept he did not know, but it was 
still early morning when his slumbers were interrupted 
by the voice of some one singing. Strangely that voice 
mingled with his dreams. Sharp, shrill, insistent, 
until at last it roused him and he became wide awake. 
Then he realized that a boy with an unusually shrill 
voice was in the stable beneath him, feeding his 


232 


A Drama of the Hills 


horses. And as he worked he was singing with 
agonizing vehemence an old backwoods ditty: 

“ As I come down the new cut road, 

And she come down the lane, 

I heered the old man yell at her, 

‘Oh git along ’Lizy Jane/ 

And hit’s git along ’Lizy Jane.” 

“ Stand over thar you Bally,” said the shrill voice. 
“ Looks like ye mought do without a’stealin’ old 
Bill’s corn.” 

How was this? There was something strangely 
familiar to Manning’s ears in that voice. Vainly he 
strove to recall where and when he had heard it before. 
And then the ballad was resumed: 

“ She hugged me and she kissed me; 

She wrang her hands and cried. 

She ’lowed I were the purtiest thing 
That ever lived or died. 

Oh git along ’Lizy Jane, 

“ And hit’s git along ’Lizy Jane.” 

“ Thar ye old hawgs, chaw that thar corn, whilst 
I climbs up inter the loft and throws ye down some 
hay.” And in another minute the head of the singer 
appeared as he slowly climbed up the ladder. And 
before the astonished Manning stood none other than 
Jerry Boon, the bound boy of old Isaac Fain, and his 


Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 233 

able helper on that memorable night when he escaped 
from the Walton mob! The sight of the boy literally 
took the fugitive’s breath for a moment as, yet unseen, 
he congratulated himself on this marvelous piece of 
good fortune, and uttered not a sound. 

But Jerry turning with a fork of hay looked straight 
into the eyes of a bruised and bloody face within six 
feet of him! Any ordinary boy would have fled 
screaming with fright at such a gruesome sight. Not 
so Jerry! Quick as a flash the big three-tined pitch- 
fork was whirled into the position of a bayonet at 
charge, and the sharp points were within an inch of 
Manning’s face. 

“ Throw up yer hands, ye durned rebel! ” the boy 
cried, his voice squeaking with excitement, “ throw 
up yer hands! ” 

“ Certainly Jerry,” came the reply, “ I wish I could, 
but you see with my hands in this shape I just can’t!” 
And turning on his side he held up his wrists for 
Jerry’s inspection. 

“ Oh Lordy, Lordy! Ef it ain’t Mr. Manning,” 
squealed the boy casting his pitchfork to one side and 
grasping both of Manning’s hands in his own. “ For 
God’s sake, Mr. Manning how’d ye git hyar? Who 
putt them things onto yer hands? Who’s be’n 
a’hurtin’ of ye? ” 

“ Hold on Jerry,” said Norman as the boy paused 
to catch his breath, “ Don’t ask so many questions at 
once, and I’ll try to answer them, and tell you all 
about it.” And as concisely as possible he explained 


234 


A Drama of the Hills 


the situation. “ And Jerry I am fearfully hungry, 
and —,” but at the word “ Hungry,” Jerry had slid 
down the ladder and flown to the house, and in an 
amazingly short space of time was back with a great 
smoking block of corn pone, hot from the oven, which 
he handed to Manning with the curt order “ Eat that 
thar right quick! ” And certainly no order was ever 
more promptly and literally obeyed. 

But even as the pone was disappearing there was a 
shrill outcry from the direction of the house: “ You 
Jerry! Were hit you that done stolened the pone I 
hed in the skillet fur breakfust? Ef hit were I flow 
to gether me a hickry and wear ye plumb to strings, 
so I do! ” 

At which outburst Jerry winked solemnly at 
Manning, and said: 

“ Hit’s jest my Granny Boon, my Paw’s Maw. 
She’s all right, and she never hit me a lick endurin’ 
of all my life.” 

By this time the old woman was in the stable, and 
not finding Jerry as she expected, she evidently be¬ 
came frightened lest some accident had befallen her 
pet, and without a pause in the outflow of words 
changed in an instant from the direst threats to the 
most affectionate appeals to her grandson. 

“Now then Honey, Grandmaw didn’t mean nothin’. 
Ef ye wanted to take the pone why who’s got a better 
right. Come now Sugar Pie, come to your own 
Granny.” Then as Jerry’s legs came into sight, as 
he descended the ladder, she made a quick spring and 


Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 235 

seized him by the ankles, piping her shrillest: “ Now 
I’ve got ye, ye limb of satan! ” Whereat Jerry burst 
into shrieks of laughter in which the old woman in¬ 
stantly joined. 

“ Granny," Manning heard Jerry say, as the 
laughter ceased, “ Remember that thar school teacher 
feller I told ye about? The one that saved me a 
lickin' frum old Ike Fain? ” 

“ Shore Honey, I remembers about hit. I'd shore 
like to tell him how much a'bleedged I be fur him 
a'standin' up fur my boy." 

“ Well ye know Granny, they said he done killed a 
old feller (but he never), and they was a'goin’ to 
hang him, and he done got out of jail and got plumb 
clar off." 

“ Yes honey, I knows about hit, and he done tuk 
off a powerful purty gal along of hit too. But what 
ye tellin' me about hit all now fur? " 

“ Granny, they done cotch him agin; and last night 
they had him on the steam keers, a'takin' him to 
Labrydor fur to hang him, — and he done jump 
plum outten the keer winder, — an' he run all night,— 
and he’s hid in our loft right now, — and I done 
stolened the pone fur him! " 

“ My good Lord a’mighty! " shrilled the old woman, 
“ Is ye done gone crazy Honey, or what ye reckin! " 

“ No Granny, I ain't nigh a’bein’ crazy, so I'll show 
ye. Mr. Manning come down won't ye? " 

And at that summons Manning crept awkwardly 
down the ladder, while the old lady leaped nimbly 


236 A Drama of the Hills 

outside the stable door, and stood ready to flee if 
needful. 

“ This hyar is him, Granny,” said Jerry, and thus 
introduced Manning made haste to explain his pres¬ 
ence in the stable to the startled old dame. His 
explanation was plentifully punctuated by a series of 
exclamations and ejaculations from her, expressive of 
joy or sorrow as the different phases of the story ap¬ 
pealed to her. 

“ And so Mrs. Boon,” Manning concluded, “ Mon¬ 
roe or a score of others may be here any minute, and 
I am liable to get you and Jerry into trouble if they 
find me here. But I want to ask one great favor first, 
and then I’ll strike out into the woods again.” 

“ What’s all this hyar foolishness about a’gittin’ 
me into trouble? ” cried old Mrs. Boon, “ Let me tell 
you stranger, old Molly Boon hes lived to be eighty 
year old; she hes seed her old man killed before her 
eyes bekase he wouldn’t tell the breshwhackers whar 
a pore wounded Federal soldier were hid. She has 
fout her own way this a’many a day now, and never 
showed no white feather endurin’ of her whole life. 
Don’t ye never go to think she is a’goin’ to begin 
playin’ sneak, now. Nary ’nother word outen ye 
about takin’ to no woods agin! ” 

“ But Mrs. Boon,” Manning urged, “ think of what 
trouble you would have if Monroe or his deputies 
should trail me here.” 

“ Thar ye go agin a’talkin’ about trouble. Let me 
tell ye; efsobe Walt Monroe, or ary other fool body, 


Mr. Munroe Meets with a Surprise 237 

comes a’smellin’ ’round hyar, I’ll larn ’em what 
trouble railly is! I will plumb shore teach ’em the 
whole lamin’ of trouble! Come ’long inter the house 
now. Ye were good to my baby hyar, and thar 
ain’t enough Walt Monroes this side of perdition to 
git ye away frum hyar unte’l I’m willin, and ye are 
willin’ to go! ” 

So into the house the three went, and the old 
woman bathed the cuts and bruises on Manning’s 
face and hands, with a touch as gentle as if her poor 
old toil-hardened hands had been those of the daintiest 
lady in the land. And as she thus ministered to the 
fugitive’s needs she said: 

“ What were that thar great favor ye ’lowed to be 
axin’ of me and Jerry a bit ago? ” 

“ Just this Mrs. Boon,” Manning answered, “ I 
am almost frantic about my wife. She is way off 
there alone and among strangers. I would give almost 
anything in the world to get word to her father, 
Sheriff Morton you know, where she is, so he can go 
after her, or at least send her word that I am alive 
and well, if not much more.” 

“Well ain’t no need of giving all ye got to git word 
to Harry Morton. Jerry thar kin git a’straddle of 
old Bally, and make hit into Labrydor agin noon. 
And hit a good thirty mile too! ” 

“ I kin beat a’ridin’ Bally, Granny,” chimed in 
Jerry, “that thar brakeman feller what let me ride on 
the keers with him when I come out hyar, his train 
will be at Frank’s switch goin’ west agin eight o’clock, 


238 A Drama of the Hills 

and Fd git into Labrydor afore old Bally’d carry me 
half way thar.” 

Jerry’s plan was adopted, and soon he was on the 
way to Frank’s switch, with the following note pinned 
inside his homespun shirt: “ Mr. Morton, Mary is at 
Brock’s Mills, thirty miles from Knoxville, Tennessee. 
She is all alone, and needs your help at once. For 
God’s sake go to her and bring her home. Bearer will 
give you particulars about myself. Take all my love 
to Mary. N. M.” 

As the boy prepared to start he said to Manning: 
“ I don’t ’low old Fain ’ud be likely to be to Labrydor 
today, bein’ as hit’s Sunday. I’d hate powerful fur 
him to ketch me agin. I don’t mind bein’ licked six 
or eight times a day, but a feller gits tired of bein’ 
licked all the time, it gits sort ’er tiresome like! That’s 
why I run off and left him. D—d old Devil! ” And 
Jerry’s eyes which had twinkled during the first part 
of his statement, flashed fire at the last in a way that 
presaged trouble for Mr. Isaac Fain, if he should 
attempt to renew his hold on the boy. 


CHAPTER XXIV 
In which Mary Takes a Captive 

The four days and nights which were to be the time 
of Manning’s absence from home had come and gone. 
Mary had kept busy during the days, and the nights 
had usually found her so weary that she slept soundly, 
in spite of her loneliness, and the dread of the man 
she had met at Uncle Billy’s under the name of 
“ Mallicoat.” Indeed the old man had told her that 
the drover had gone off leaving word that he would not 
return for a week. This information added greatly 
to Mary’s peace of mind. Nevertheless each evening 
as the shadows began to creep down the mountain 
sides, she carefully closed and barred door and win¬ 
dows, and the sheriff’s great revolver, properly loaded 
and capped, lay beneath her pillow ready for instant 
use. 

But the days and nights were gone at last, and the 
lower the sun sank in the west, the higher did her 
heart beat, and the clearer rang her song. For more 
than an hour before the sun had actually set she found 
herself listening again and again for the rumble of 
Norman’s wagon upon the stony hill. As often had 
she laughed, and told herself that it would probably 


240 


A Drama of the Hills 


be quite dark before he came. Nevertheless it was 
still early twilight when she gave the last touch to the 
setting of the little table standing in the center of the 
room. This table, one of the extravagances for which 
she had pretended to scold her husband, was spread 
with a snowy cloth; the few cheap dishes, which 
their poverty afforded, were in place, polished until 
they shone like the choicest porcelain. On the stone 
hearth the food Norman liked best simmered ready 
to be served; and the rude little room was redolent 
with the aroma of coffee. 

And so darkness fell, and she was still alone. And 
now her fears, never wholly lulled to sleep, awoke in 
full force. Love has the power to make a loving heart 
suffer as no other human attribute can, and such pain 
Mary Manning now had to endure, for by this time 
the stars were shining and the hour was far later 
than Manning had expected to be in reaching home. 
Standing at the door listening for the hundredth time 
Mary realized with a sudden thrill of fear, that she 
had neglected to make her castle secure against 
invasion, so with a heart that was not beating lightly 
now, she closed and barred the door and windows 
once more. Then she sat by the fire, a pathetic little 
figure, waiting disconsolate and lonely, for the coming 
of her loved one. Time slowly passed without a sound: 
and still she sat with every nerve bent to listen, hop¬ 
ing against hope that the longed for rattle of the 
wheels was near. 

Then she heard a step on the gravel in the path that 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 241 

led to her door. Her heart stood still with terror at 
the sound, and she was thankful that she had not 
neglected to fasten the door and windows. It seemed 
to her an hour that she sat listening to these foot¬ 
steps, and yet it could have been but a few moments 
for ever they drew steadily nearer. And then, sound¬ 
ing with startling clearness on the perfect silence of 
the room, came the signal which Norman had himself 
taught her for use in just such a time as this: “ ONE— 
ONE—ONE, TWO, THREE! " “ ONE—ONE— 
ONE, TWO, THREE! " 

Ah the joy and ecstasy of the moment! How she 
leaped from her chair with a laugh that was half a sob, 
as she cried: 

“ Oh Norman darling, how terribly you frightened 
me!" And as she spoke she threw the bar from its 
socket and flung the door wide, and in the next instant 
found herself locked in the ape-like arms of Joe 
Mallicoat! 

“ Ah my beauty! So I skeered ye did I? Well 
now thar's no use in bein' skeered of me. I ain't 
a'goin’ to hurt ye, fur ye are my woman now! Unner- 
stan', ye belongs to me frum now on." 

The shock, the terror, the loathing, were all too 
strong to allow her to faint. Rather they raised within 
her the deadly fighting spirit, inherited from genera¬ 
tions of fighting ancestors. Men and women who had 
fought to the death against red Indians, and frontier 
ruffians, and British Tories, and who had learned how 
to die, but never how to surrender! So she thrust 


242 


A Drama of the Hills 


herself back with her left hand pushing against the 
brute’s broad chest, and with her right clinched into 
a tiny fist she struck him again and again in the face. 
She did not scream, screaming was not in the old 
pioneer blood, and would have been useless as she 
well knew, but she struggled with every ounce of 
her strength, and tore out whole handfuls of his 
coarse black hair and beard, until the beast roared with 
pain and anger. 

But her strength was as nothing in the hardened 
muscles of this ravisher, and in a moment he had her 
wrists in a grip of iron, and half dragged, half carried 
her to a chair and thrust her into it with savage force. 
“ Thar ye little hell cat,” he cried, “ don’t ye go to 
think I won’t make ye pay fur all this! No use 
a’kickin’ I tell ye! Ye’re my woman, that’s what ye 
are! ” 

“ Oh you brute,” panted Mary, “ you better run 
for your worthless life. My husband will be here in a 
few minutes, and he’ll kill you on sight after this.” 

“ Oh ho! So yer husband is a’cornin’ is he! Well 
I ’low he wont come neither! And ye say he’ll kill me 
Eh! Maybe ye think he’s good at killin’ jest bekase 
he killed one pore old feller in Missoury! ” 

The iron grip still held her hands; the wolfish eyes 
still glared into the gray that Norman loved so well; 
the flushed and brutal face was almost against her 
own; the breath, hot with the fumes of liquor scorched 
her cheek; but the brave spirit within that frail form 
flinched not. Indeed the scoundrel’s betrayal of his 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 243 

knowledge of Norman’s identity instead of adding to 
her terror calmed the throbbing of her heart, and 
turned her nerves to steel, and she actually laughed 
into the bestial face! 

“ Oh you fool and liar! So you have found some 
one to tell you that old lie have you? And you had 
just sense enough to believe it. If you wasn’t drunk 
I’d prove you just what I called you, a fool and a liar; 
but there’s no use talking to a drunk fool, a sober one 
is bad enough, but a drunk fool is the limit! ” 

The girl’s desperate courage; the pitiless lashing of 
her tongue; her utter contempt of him, and his power 
to work her ill; all these together with the rapidly 
increasing effect of the liquor he had swallowed, 
combined to overthrow the man’s long practiced 
caution and he almost shrieked: 

“ So you dast to call me a fool and a liar does ye! 
Listen then and see who’s the fool, me or that sneakin’ 
whelp ye calls yer husband, which I know, and ye 
know, ye ain’t got no husband! Hark ye then: I’m 
Jake Branson! I killed that cussed old fool of an 
Uncle of mine, Jim Walton. I killed him bekase he 
wouldn’t do me a little favor. Then along comes this 
yer nice little school teacher feller and sticks his haid 
into the noose. Then he has to come a’foolin’ around 
hyar. I never knowed him, but I heered you call him 
1 Norman,’ and I ketched on. So I nacherally telly- 
graphs a feller in Missoury to come git the murderer. 
He come Friday night all right, and tuk yer man from 
Knoxvi’le back to Lafleet County. I ’low he’s about 


244 A Drama of the Hills 

ready by now fur a reel comfortable hangin back thar 
in Labrydor! 

“ Also (set still or I'll hev to make ye!), I gits a 
thousand dollars fur deliverin’ the murderer to jestice. 
Likewise I sold his team and waggin fur three hundred 
dollars more, and I hev the cash in my pocket right 
now. And last, and best of all I got his woman hard 
and fast right whar I ’low to keep her! Now then my 
purty bird, will ye give in, or shall I make ye do 
hit? ” 

As the drunken scoundrel thus blatantly told his 
story there blazed upon the girl’s mind the realization 
that now in her hands was the knowledge which, if 
she could only utilize it would instantly solve the 
problem, and sweep away all their troubles in the 
twinkling of an eye. And even as she heard, in all 
its cold-blooded horror the tale as it was told, her 
whole consciousness was actively at work formulating 
a plan by which she could escape, and put to use the 
priceless information which she had gained. 

Thus when the fellow ended his harangue she was 
ready to act, and she quietly said: 

“ Well I’m sorry I called ye a fool. Ye are shore the 
sharpest man ever I seen, and I always did set a 
heap of store by a sharp man. Thar now, ye needn’t 
hold my wrists any longer. I ain’t no fool, and I 
knows when I am beat.” 

Over the bloated face spread the evil grin of one 
who sees the prize he had played for easily within his 
grasp. He believed that he had won, and he released 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 245 

her and lurched drunkenly towards the door, saying: 

“ I 'low I'd better shefc this hyar door." The instant 
his back was turned Mary sprang noiselessly to the 
bed and thrust her hand under the pillow, and when 
Branson turned with some foully insulting term of 
endearment on his lips, he found himself looking 
straight into the muzzle of sheriff Harry Morton's 
great navy revolver! 

“ Throw up your hands," said a tense steely voice 
he had never heard before, “ throw up your hands or 
I'll shoot you like a dog! " 

Like every other bully Branson was at heart an 
arrant coward. He had that sort of wisdom which 
teaches a man to know when the speaker is in deadly 
earnest. His peril sobered him in an instant, for he 
realized that sudden death grinned at him from that 
great muzzle, and the gray eye that blazed along the 
barrel quivered not by so much as the fraction of an 
eye lash; and in a second his hands were held high 
above his head! 

“ Now then Honey—" he began in tones as wheed¬ 
ling as he could produce with his bull voice, “ Don’t 
go to be foolish—." 

But the girl's voice stopped him sharply: “ Another 
word out of your vile mouth and I’ll pull the trigger! 
Now you do just as I tell you, and do it without an 
instant's hesitation, or you will be a dead man in less 
than a minute. Understand? I’ll kill you at the least 
sign of hesitation on your part. I just ache to do it 
anyway! " 


246 


A Drama of the Hills 


The big bullet head nodded violently, evidently in 
entire acquiescence to orders, and fearing to open his 
mouth to say so. 

“ All right then; but remember I will only give an 
order once and if you do not instantly obey, I shoot. 
Now then: turn your face to the wall, keep your 
hands up, and move along to the right until I tell you 
to stop.” 

Branson hastened to obey, and the movement 
brought his hands in contact with a strong hempen 
cord that Norman had stretched across one end of the 
cabin for Mary’s use as a clothes line when the weather 
compelled her to hang the week’s wash within doors. 

“ Now,” continued that cold keen voice, “ untie 
that clothes line.” Branson complied. “ Keep hold 
of that end of the rope and move back along the wall 
to your left. Keep going till I tell you to stop.” 

Branson did this, side stepping too with commend¬ 
able zeal, and evident desire to please. “ Now untie 
the other end of the line.” And this he also did. 
“ Put the two ends of the line together.” He did so. 
“ Slip that loop back over the double rope.” At the 
word so done, and Branson held in his hands as per¬ 
fect a noose as ever hangman slipped over neck of 
murderer. 

“ Put that noose over your head! ” The wretch 
hesitated at this, and his great body fairly writhed in 
abject terror. “ Quick or I’ll shoot! ” And the noose 
was around his neck at last! 

“ Now then Branson, I am going to hold the end of 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 247 

that rope with my left hand, and my gun with my 
right; and I am going to take you over to uncle Billy 
Wallis’ cabin. If you fail to keep your hands up, or if 
you start to make one single false move, I swear I 
will put six bullets through you as fast as I can pull 
the trigger. Now march! ” 

And march he did, while close at his heels was his 
Nemesis cool and wary, and ready to work instant and 
fatal vengeance at the slightest provocation. Uncle 
Billy had long since lain down to sleep, and was 
slumbering soundly when his rest was broken by the 
strenuous howling of the two gaunt hounds that he 
kept to guard his home. “ What in tarnation ye 
yelping about! ” Mary heard him exclaim, “ shet 
up yer noise or I’ll git up and flail ye half to death! ” 

But the dogs only yelped and howled the louder. 
Then in a moment’s break in the chorus the old man 
heard Mary calling: 

“ Oh Uncle Billy open the door quick please, I 
need your help.” 

“ Jest wait a minnit Mis’ Bennett,” came the 
reply then, “ Unte’l I kin git into these hyar con- 
sarned old breeches! ” And in less than the specified 
minute the door opened, and the old man with a 
candle held high above his head, stood revealed in the 
dark opening. 

“ Well so help my soul! ” he cried in astonishment 
at what he saw, as his eyes adjusted themselves to the 
shadows and took in the scene, “ What ye doin’ 
Mallicoat with yer hands helt up like a Preacher 


248 


A Drama of the Hills 


axin’ of the benneduction! ” But Branson had too 
lively a sense of the big pistol held so closely between 
his shoulder blades to make answer, and uttered no 
sound. And then Mary told as rapidly as possible of 
the scoundrel’s attack, and of the ruse by which she 
had captured him and brought him to his present 
lamentable condition. 

“ Hyar, Mi’s Bennett, give me a holt of that thar 
rope. I’ll run hit over a ceilin’ jiste, and we’ll hang 
the dirty dog in less ’n a minute! ” 

“ No Uncle Billy,” said Mary with the shadow of a 
smile playing around her lips, in spite of the tragic 
surroundings, “ that’s not best. What you must do 
is to tie this creature neck and heels, and keep guard 
over him until I can get to Knoxville and back. I’ll 
telegraph my father, and he will come and take this 
murderer back to Missouri.” 

“ Lord ’a mercy! ” groaned the wretched prisoner 
at that, and Mary cried: 

“ Take care! You came near making my finger 
crook then. Remember I will shoot next time you 
say a word, unless spoken to. I’ll do it dead sure! ” 

“ Mis’ Bennett,” then said the old man, “ I’ll do 
jest what ye says do. But Lordy, Lordy, how I 
would like to string him up right hyar and now! I 
know how mighty well, ye better bleeve, fur I 
rid along of old John Morgan’s men endurin’ of the 
war, and I larnt how to hang ’em jest es slick! 
He, he! ” 

“ I don’t doubt that uncle Billy, but my way is the 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 249 

best. Your house stands so far back from the road, 
that no one will be likely to see him until Daddy 
comes, especially if you keep him close inside the 
house.” Old Wallis acquiesced, and going to an an¬ 
cient chest in the corner produced therefrom a for¬ 
midable and rusty pair of handcuffs and locked them 
on Branson’s wrists, remarking as he did so: 

“ Hed them things laid away ever sence I were 
constable onct, come in handy now.” 

Then the old veteran pulled off his prisoner’s shoes 
and stockings, and tied his feet together, with many 
a coil of Mary’s clothes line. 

“ Now ye big devil,” he said, “ if ye so much as 
offers to sneeze with that great mouth of yourn, I’ll 
do myself the pleasure of shoving a block of wood into 
hit, and a’tyin’ of it thar with a towel. Now lie down 
in the corner yander.” And the big brute, com¬ 
pletely cowed and terror stricken, slipped to his knees, 
and extended himself full length upon the floor. 
“ Now then Mallicoat,” said Uncle Billy, “ I reckin 
ye’ll stay putt fur awhile. How were hit ye were 
a’sayin’ Mis’ Bennett, is the creeter a shore ’nuff 
murderer? ” 

“ Uncle Billy,” answered Mary, “1 havn’t told you 
one half of his wickedness. First his name is not 
Mallicoat. He is Jacob Branson. He killed his uncle 
in Lafleet County, Missouri, a little over a year ago. 
Then my husband, we were not married then, found 
the dead man as he was going from work. Branson 
had run away and my husband was arrested and 


250 


A Drama of the Hills 


charged with the murder. He was tried and convicted, 
and sentenced to hang, and —” 

“ What! ” yelled uncle Billy, “ and this hyar critter 
snoke out of hit and left an innocent man to hang! 
Say Mis’ Bennett, ye pintedly jest must let me pull 
him up to the jiste a time or two! ” 

“ No uncle Billy, that won’t do. Just be patient, 
I am not through yet. By the way uncle Billy, my 
name is not Bennett either. We had to take another 
name after I helped my husband to escape from jail 
and we were married, for there was a big reward 
offered for him. My husband’s true name is Norman 
Manning. 

“ This man Branson was suspected of being his 
uncle’s murderer, and that is why he ran away and 
came here. Then Mr. Manning and I followed too, 
but of course we did not know anything of Branson 
being here ahead of us, and as we had never met him 
before none of us recognized each other when we did 
come together. But Branson told me tonight while 
he had me prisoner, that he heard me call my husband 
1 Norman,’ and as he had seen the advertisement 
offering a thousand dollars for Mr. Manning’s arrest, 
he recognized us from the description. He told me 
that he notified the Missouri officers, and that they 
came and arrested Norman in Knoxville last Friday 
night, and took him back to Missouri. 

“ Then this murderer, this coward, turned thief 
also, for he told me himself that he sold Norman’s 
wagon and team for three hundred dollars, and has 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 251 

the money in his pocket now. Then he came back 
here tonight, and by giving Norman’s signal on the 
door deceived me, and I let him into the house. Then 
I got the drop on him, as I told you, and brought him 
over here.” 

The old man’s face was a study as he listened to this 
surprising revelation. His mouth stood open dis¬ 
playing an acreage of toothless gums, and his knotty 
old hands clenched and opened with every breath that 
he drew. As Mary ceased speaking he leaped to the 
side of the prostrate figure on the floor, with the evi¬ 
dent intention of inflicting condign punishment then 
and there; but Mary was quicker than he, and sprang 
between the old man and his intended victim. 
“ Uncle Billy,” she cried, “ you must behave or I 
won’t dare to leave him in your keeping while I am 
gone. Do sit down now, and let us arrange our plans.” 

“ Well Mis’ Bennett—Er—Mis’ Gunning—er what¬ 
ever hit is, you’re the Captin’, and he’s shore your 
prisoner, and I’ll do like you says. But I do most 
nacherlly hone to kick him a time or two in his ribs! 
I’ll be etarnally dog bit ef I ever heered of no sech a 
devil unhung, and me an old breshwhacker too! But 
holt on a minute, afore I sets down I ’low to waller 
him around a bit and take that three hundred dollars 
he got fur your man’s waggin and team. I’ll hev that 
much satisfaction outten him anyway.” 

And very vigorously then did the old Confederate 
rough rider proceed to “ waller ” the trussed and 
ironed villain, after which he extracted from Bran- 


252 


A Drama of the Hills 


son’s hip pocket a big leather wallet from which, with 
Mary’s help, he proceeded to count out three hundred 
dollars; rejoicing much at the sour visage with which 
the thief saw his stealings restored to the rightful 
owner. 

“ Now then uncle Billy,” said Mary after this 
satisfactory transaction, “ I must go, for I must be in 
Knoxville just as quick as it is possible to get there.” 

“ Why the good Lawd! ye don’t ’low to go tonight 
does ye? Hit’s dark as black cats, and ye afoot! Ye 
pintedly must wait unte’l day, Mis’ Bennett.” 

“No! No! I cannot wait. I must get word to 
Missouri that the murderer is found. Even now that 
awful mob may be trying to capture Norman again. 
I will walk to the mill, and wake Mr. Harney. I 
know he will let me have a horse when he knows why 
it is I need one.” 

“ Yes he’d do that shore ef he were at home. But 
I heered this evenin’ that he done gone to Nashville 
to buy goods, and wouldn’t be back fur a week.” 

“ God help me then,” cried poor Mary, at this 
insurmountable bar to her plans. “ Uncle Billy what 
am I to do? ” 

And on the instant, as if in answer to her frantic 
question, there rang through the still night air the 
shrill neighing of a horse! 

“ Thar by the Lawd! ” shouted uncle Billy, “ that 
thar is that big black hoss this hyar thief rides around 
the kentry on. I hev heard him whicker afore and 
hit’s him shore. Now ef ye could ride ary sech a 


253 


In Which Mary Takes a Captive 

harricane as that thar, he’d take ye to Knox’vlle 
a’whirlin’! ” 

“ Ride him! ” laughed Mary as she clapped her 
hands for sheer joy, “ ride him! Why uncle Billy I 
could ride him bare back and without halter or bridle! 
There wasn’t a man at home who could ride with me.” 

As she talked uncle Billy lit a lantern and sallied 
out into the night, and soon returned leading the great 
black stallion which his owner had left tied in the 
woods an hour before, when he had started on foot for 
Mary’s door. The horse, nervous from long waiting 
in the cold, was giving uncle Billy all he could do to 
prevent his breaking away entirely. 

“ Say darter,” the old fellow gasped, “ ye mustn’t 
think of gittin’ onto this hyar devil’s back. He’d kill 
ye daid afore he’d gone half a mile! ” But Mary 
laughed him to scorn: “Just hang onto him a few 
minutes, uncle Billy, until I can run over to the house 
and put on a heavier dress, and I’ll show you how an 
Ozark backwoods girl can ride, when she has to! ” 

In a brief time she was back, with a heavier dress, a 
shawl tied tightly over her head, and heavy gloves on 
her hands. Then with a spring she was in the saddle, 
and with a cheerful “ Let him go, Uncle Billy,” she 
gave the great brute his head and was flying down the 
rocky hill at a speed which made Uncle Billy gasp. 

“ God,” he swore, “ what a woman! Ketches and 
ties a man big enough to eat her at two bites! Makes 
the dirty devil tell all he knows; and then rides 
the worst hoss in Tennessee, like she were old John 


254 


A Drama of the Hills 


Morgan come to life! And her as purty, and gentle a 
little body as ever I seen. And Fll hold this here 
varmint fur her, or hang him fur her jest which ever 
she says, so I will! ” 


CHAPTER XXV 

In which Jerry Boon Takes a Hand 

Jerry Boon was waiting at Frank’s switch when the 
local freight came clanking in, west bound. The boy 
had not been mistaken for his friend the brakeman 
waved a hand from the caboose when he saw the little 
fellow. “ Hello Kid,” he called, “ going back for old 
Fain to lick you again are you? I thought you couldn’t 
stand it long without having him dust your jacket 
for you! ” 

“ Don’t ye go to fool yerself, Mister,” answered 
Jerry, “ old Fain ain’t got no call to lick me no more! 
I’m a’tellin’ ye he ain’t; I’m a’goin’ up to Labrydor 
on bizness, I be! ” 

“ Business! ” laughed the jolly brakeman, “ I’d 
say bizness! You look like a capitalist now don’t 
you! ” 

“ Well,” said Jerry, “ I got capital ’nuff so I don’t 
have to be beholden to ye fur no ride anyway! ” 
And he showed a silver dollar in the palm of his grimy 
little hand. 

“ Holy Moses! ” shouted his friend, “ here’s a 
bloated bond holder sure enough! Allow me to take 
off my hat to your honor! ” 

“ Shore! take hit off or stick hit on, hit’s all the 


256 


A Drama of the Hills 


same to me/’ grinned the boy, and the passenger 
train for St. Louis passing just then the freight pulled 
out with Jerry by his friend's side high up in the 
cupola of the caboose, as happy a boy as all Missouri 
held that day. But question as he might the brake- 
man could get no explanation of Jerry's trip to the 
county seat, except the original one that he “ were 
goin' thar on bizness." And with that the honest 
fellow was compelled to be content. 

Jerry landed in Labrador at the hour when a large 
part of the population were on their way to church. 
And wishing to avoid attracting attention he made 
his way through side streets and alleys as much as 
possible. Slipping quietly along in this way the boy 
was passing a small three-room cottage on a retired 
corner, when the door opened and Uncle Littleberry 
Smallwood stepped out. Certainly scripture would 
apply to a description of the little man that morning, 
for it could be truthfully said of him that “ Solomon 
in all his glory was not arrayed " as was Uncle Little- 
berry! Behold him! the long-tailed blue coat shone 
with brass buttons as large as silver half dollars; the 
drab vest extending down well toward the region of 
his knees; the equally drab trousers, made for a man 
so much taller than their present wearer that they 
were perforce turned up nearly to the lower edge of 
the vest; and all this finery topped off with a very 
high bell crowned stove pipe hat, of a vintage of 
twenty-five years previous! This head piece being 
some three sizes too large for the little man continu- 


In Which Jerry Boon Takes a Hand 257 

ally slipped down until it rested squarely on the top 
of his ears. 

Jerry was deeply impressed with Uncle Little- 
berry’s grandeur, and the garments, which he doubted 
not were in the very height of the prevailing fashion. 
But the boy was too glad to see some one to whom he 
dared to speak to hesitate, and he flew across the street 
crying: “ Uncle Littleberry! Oh Uncle Littleberry! 
Law but I am glad to see you! ” 

“ Ye be, be ye? ” chirrupped the old man, “ Well 
I’ll be durned ef I kin say’s much! Who be ye any¬ 
way? ” 

“ Why don’t ye know me? I’m Jerry Boon, old 
Ike Fain’s bound boy. I were at the jail that night 
when Manning got away.” 

“ Yes I knows ye now. Old Fain’s be’n a prowlicat- 
ing around all week a’lookin’ fur ye. ’Lowed he’d lick 
the etarnal hind sights plumb often ye! I ups and tells 
him I’d swar out a warrant fur him ef I ever heered 
tell of him a’lickin’ ye ary time agin. And then he 
went off cussin’ a yaller streak. What ye atter now? 
Talk fast fur Mealie’ll be hyar dr’eckly, and like’s 
not she’d be fur grabbin’ of ye and takin’ ye along to 
church to show ye fur a speciment of a ginuine livin’ 
heathen! ” 

So Jerry, in terror of the fate Uncle Littleberry had 
intimated, hastened to say: “ I got a letter fur the 
sheriff. Whar ye reckin I’ likely find him? Hit’s 
mighty important I’m a’tellin’ ye that he git’s hit 
quick.” 


258 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Morton ain’t up to the jail right now, I don’t 
reckin. I heered him say he were a’goin’ down to 
Springfield this mornin’ on the ’leven o’clock train. 
Hit’s mighty nigh that time o’day right now, but I 
reckin ef ye runs right peart ye may ketch him at the 
deepo.” 

Jerry wasted not an instant then but sped swift as 
a bird across lots to the depot. He was none too soon, 
for as he reached the platform he heard the train 
whistle for the station, and he dashed through the 
crowd of Sunday loafers, looking in all directions for 
Morton. The train had stopped before Jerry sighted 
the sheriff almost in the act of stepping on board, but 
he managed to reach him in time, and panting so 
from his exertions as to be unable to speak he thrust 
Manning’s note into his hands. The sheriff unfolded 
the paper and glanced at it, and his downcast face lit 
up as if a ray of sunshine had flashed across it. 

“ Come here boy! ” he shouted as the train rumbled 
past, “ come along with me.” And to the surprise of 
the crowd the sheriff made no further effort to board 
the train but took the hand of the ragged little hill 
boy, and hastened away. He paused not until they 
were in his own room in the jail building, with the 
doors and windows shut fast. Then under a rattling 
fire of questions, and as anxious to tell as Morton was 
to question, Jerry repeated the story of Manning’s 
capture in Tennessee, and of his marvellous escape 
from custody of the sharpest detective in the West. 
Then said Morton: 


In Which Jerry Boon Takes a Hand 259 

“ How come it, ye reckin, that Walt Monroe 
didn’t jump the train too, and ketch him afore he’d 
gone a quarter! Durned ef I know, and durned ef I 
keer neither. The boy ain’t guilty, and I gamble he 
comes clar yet. Jerry ye reckin ye are game to do a 
mighty big thing agin fur Norman Manning? ” 

“ Bet’ cher life! ” tersely answered Jerry. 

“ Well, then I’ll let ye take Mary’s pony, in the 
barn yander, and ye jest let him sail hell bent to Uncle 
John Hampton’s. The little critter is mighty keen 
set fur lack of havin’ ary thing to do lately, and hit’ll 
do him good to put him through. Ye tell Uncle John 
fur me, to git Tom Leathers, and him and all ’mongst 
ye, git over to your Grannie’s tonight, and git Man¬ 
ning and hide him away sommers safe, afore day 
tomorrer. Unnerstan’? ” 

“ Betcher life,” again answered Jerry. “ Good boy 
Jerry. Ye are clar grit, and I’d be proud I were yer 
Daddy. Now tell Norman I’ll ketch the noon express 
fur Tennessee, and I’ll git Mary here as quick as the 
law allows. You tell him fur me too, not to worrit 
hisself. That Colonel Barton, and me and Uncle 
John, and the rest of us has a whole passel of new evi¬ 
dence, and now he’s hyar whar we kin git to him, 
we’ll git a new trial and clar him shore. Now then 
Jerry come on fur hit’s time ye were a’ridin’ fur Uncle 
John’s.” 

With Jerry started on his errand Morton hastened 
to Colonel Barton’s office, and found him there as he 
had expected, Sunday though it was. Here he quickly 


260 


A Drama of the Hills 


threw the old veteran into tempests of gratulatory 
profanity, and roars of laughter as he told the story of 
Manning’s escape. “ Beats me,” said the sheriff as 
he had before said to Jerry, “ Beats me why Walt 
didn’t jump from the train and get him at once.” 

“ There then,” cried the Colonel, dealing Morton a 
resounding slap across the shoulders, “ that explains 
what old Doc. Lamson told me at the Post Office 
a while ago. Said he was called to see Walt Monroe, 
and found him with the worst sprained ankle he most 
ever saw! See! Walt did jump like you might have 
knowed he would and the good Lord steered his foot 
agin a rock, and twisted his ankle for him, till our boy 
could get away! Durned if I don’t go to church and 
drap a dollar into the hat, and jine in singin’ the dox- 
ology! It’s jest plumb too good for anything! ” 

With this interview thus satisfactorily ended Mor¬ 
ton hastened to notify the assistant he had been 
compelled to hire since Mary had been away, that he 
would probably be gone several days. Then he threw 
a few items into his satchel and raced for the depot, 
where he caught the express, and was soon speeding 
away for the Tennessee Mountains. 

Meanwhile Jerry was teaching the pony his own 
understanding of the term “ Hell bent.” By great 
good fortune he reached the path through the woods 
without meeting a single person. He took this short 
cut as he had done that memorable night of Manning’s 
escape, and swung the sure footed little beast along at 
such a gait that in less than an hour he had covered 


In Which Jerry Boon Takes a Hand 261 

the ten miles, and tied the panting pony in the thick 
underbrush back of John Hampton’s barn. He stole 
softly along in the shadow of the buildings, and seeing 
nothing to alarm him was about to go boldly to the 
back door and knock. Then to Jerry’s intense delight 
the door opened and John Hampton himself came 
forth. The old man was evidently arrayed for attend¬ 
ing church, except that he had laid aside his coat 
preparatory to harnessing his horses. So Jerry stepped 
into the stable and stood in a dark corner and waited 
until Uncle John was throwing the harness onto a 
horse. Then the boy said: “ Hello Uncle John!” 
The old man was so Startled that he let the harness 
drop to the ground, and whirled as if he expected to 
be attacked: “ Why Jerry son,” he laughed, “ blessed 
ef I didn’t think the breshwhackers had me! But say 
Jerry, how come ye hyar? I were a’hopin’ ye wouldn’t 
have to come back to Ike Fain’s no more.” 

“ Don’t ye worrit about me a’comin’ back to old 
Ike’s agin, Uncle John, fur I never. I were got plumb 
away frum him, over to my Granny Boon’s. But 
thar were somethin’ I hed a chanst to do fur a friend 
of mine, and yourn too, Uncle John, so hyar I be.” 

And then, to the question of that friend’s identity, 
Jerry told again the story of Manning’s arrest and 
escape, and his own part in it; also the sheriff’s mes¬ 
sage bidding Hampton see to it that Manning was 
again safely hidden. 

“ Well now I do say Bless the Lord,” cried the old 
man. “ Sartain we’ll hide the boy unte’l the Colonel 


262 


A Drama of the Hills 


kin fix up fur a new trial, and then we’ll clar him of 
hit all, plumb clar! ” 

“ Uncle John, how ye reckin we kin git him hid 
afore they ketches on to whar he is now? ” 

“ That’s jest what I’m a’studyin’ on, Son. I kin 
hide him all right, but it pesters me how we are to 
git him hyar. Jerry, son, do ye reckin, ef I put ye onto 
a good horse, ye could ride across kentry to your 
Granny’s afore night? ” 

“ Shucks, Uncle John,” said the boy, “ I rid hyar 
frum Labrydor inside a hour, and the pony’s tied out 
yander in the bresh right now. I bet ye I kin ride him 
to Granny’s inside two hour and a half.” 

“ Well then that’s best kind. But fust we’ll put the 
pony up and feed him, and then I’ll take the boy into 
the house, and maybe so Aunt Mandy’ll feed him too, 
and atter that ye kin ride agin.” 

So when the pony was contentedly munching his 
corn, they went into the house. As the door closed 
they heard Aunt Mandy’s voice from the inner room: 
“ Oh John, what makes ye so killin’ slow this mornin’? 
Ye ain’t got the waggin ’round till yit! And ye knows 
how I hate to git to meetin’ atter all the folks is 
thar.. And Brother Plummer he ’lowed preachin’ 
would take up at half arter twelve! ” 

“ We all ain’t a’goin’ to meetin’ this time Maw,” 
replied her husband. “ Leastways I ’low maybeso 
we’ll have a kinder special thanksgivin’ sarvice right 
hyar at home! ” 

This announcement brought Aunt Mandy out of 


In Which Jerry Boon Takes a Hand 263 

her room with a rush. Well she knew that it was no 
small matter that would keep her husband away from 
“ Meetin’ ” if he was able to be out of his bed. 

“ Well land of love! What ye doin’ hyar Jerry 
Boon? Has that old Ike Fain be’n a’lickin’ ye again? 
Ye pore child! ” 

“ Nfl’m/’ answered Jerry, “ Fain he ain’t be’n 
a’lickin’ me bekase he ain’t had no chanst. And I 
don’t agree he never shall have no chanst neither! ” 
And then again the wonderful story was told, and 
the plan for Jerry to ride at once after dinner ex¬ 
plained. 

“ John,” cried Aunt Mandy with her kindly blue 
eyes swimming in tears, “ nobody needn’t tell me no 
more that thar ain’t no merricles! Think of that pore 
boy, and him with his hands chained a’drappin’ outten 
the winder of that thar steam keer! Drappin’ out 
into the pitch dark and never gittin’ hurted, leave 
alone of killed! 

“ And Walt Monroe, big strong feller too, and 
peartest ever were fur ketchin’ men what was tryin’ 
to git away; why he, pears like, he goes looney or 
somethin’! Leastways he didn’t ketch our boy! 
Bless the Lord! ” 

“ Well wife,” said Uncle John, “ I hev did a heap of 
prayin’ fur that thar boy, and I know it were the Lord 
as sent an angel so’s he shouldn’t dash his foot agin a 
stone! That’s scripter anyway, but hit’s sort of a 
puzzlement what Walt Monroe’dfsay about the angel 
part of hit! ” Then after^thinkinglhardfWer this 


264 


A Drama of the Hills 


view of the question, he added: “ Anyway we got to 
hide the boy now fust, and clar him arterwards. 
And we’ll do hit too, we’ll do hit, fur ‘ Ef the Lord be 
fur us, who kin be agin us!’ ” 

So after much planning it was arranged that as 
soon as the darkness fell Jerry should guide Manning 
to a certain thickly wooded hill some five miles on his 
way from Mrs. Boon’s towards Restful, and that here 
he would be met by Tom Leathers, who should start 
with his team for the rendezvous, as soon as darkness 
made it safe for him to do so. Once in Tom’s wagon it 
would seem an easy matter for him to reach the 
“ Hiding hole ” once more. 

So after eating such a quantity as to astonish even 
so experienced a feeder of hungry boys as Aunt Mandy, 
Jerry mounted the refreshed pony and carefully 
following obscure by paths until well out of the 
immediate neighborhood of Restful, finally swung 
into a well traveled road and put the pony to his 
paces. And to such good purpose did he ride that he 
reached his grandmother’s within the two and a half 
hours which he had set for his journey. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

In which Jerry Betrays a Prisoner 

Jerry put the pony into the stable and hastened 
into the cabin to report his own accomplishments; 
give Manning the messages intrusted to him; and 
prepare the fugitive for the last stage of his journey 
to John Hampton’s, as soon as night should fall. 

To his surprise he found the old lady alone, and as 
she heard his approaching steps she met him at the 
door with her finger on her lip in a manner that 
enjoined silence. Acting upon the hint Jerry uttered 
not a word, but eagerly awaited an explanation of 
Manning’s absence, and his granny’s strange actions. 

As the boy stood thus silent, there fell upon the 
still air a sound that he instantly recognized as the 
snoring of a man in heaviest slumber. As the old 
woman heard this solo she seemed immensely pleased 
and tip-toed out of the house to the stable, with the 
much mystified Jerry following in an equally cautious 
manner. 

Reaching the stable the old woman seized Jerry 
and excitedly whispered: “That thar feller ye 
heered snorin’ were one of these hyar ornery Waltons, 
frum down this side Osage Fork. Monroe like to 
a’brokened his laig when he loped often the train to 


266 


A Drama of the Hills 


ketch Manning. (“ Wisht’ Lord hit ’ud be’n his neck 
instid ’ur his laig he brokened.) But anyhow he 
made out to git hauled to Labrydor, and he started 
out a whole passle of fellers, and this is one of ’em, and 
loye! The woods is full of’em! 

“ This feller he’d be’n a’boosin’ afore he got this fur, 
and he raised sech a horray a’comin’ up the lane that 
I heered him in time to git Manning hid in the hay 
agin afore this critter come in. He hed enough likker 
into him so’s he wasn’t afeered to sass an old woman, 
and he set and rared and cussed fit to make the devil 
hisself ashamed. ’Lowed they’d git Manning this 
time and burn him at the stake, and a lot of sech fool 
stuff. 

“ Well he were so full anyway that I ’lowed a little 
more likker wouldn’t do no harm, so I stood treat to a 
dram or two from my old black jug. Afore he got 
plumb helpless I got him up the ladder into the loft, 
and thar he is a’snorin’ like a steam injine! Now 
what’s to do I don’t know. Thar’s others a’sneakin’ 
aroun’, fur I seen two on ’em a bit ago, and we 
can’t darst take Manning out te’l atter plumb 
dark.” 

“ Say Granny,” said Jerry, “ let me climb up and 
tell Manning the word I hev fur him, and then maybe- 
so we kin study up some devilmint to amoose these 
hyar fools that comes ’round whar they ain’t wanted.” 

So carefully the boy crept into the loft, and gave 
Manning, lying hidden in the hay, the messages from 
the sheriff and John Hampton, and the plans for his 


In Which Jerry Betrays a Prisoner 267 

flitting that night. All this raised the fugitive’s 
courage, and especially added to his comfort in the 
knowledge that the most faithful of all helpers was on 
the way to Mary’s aid. Then Jerry clambered down 
and joined his grandmother again. 

“ Granny,” he said, “ what fur a lookin’ feller was 
this one in our loft? ” 

“ Him,” replied the old woman, “ him? he’s a big 
raw-boned cuss, with long black hair, and his face 
plumb kivered with the bushiest whiskers I ever seen. 
Why ye want’er know? ” 

“ Let me tell ye, Granny, what I were a’thinkin! 
If this hyar feller come from on Osage thar’s a heap of 
fellers ’round hyar wouldn’t know him at all. ’Sposin’, 
jest fur fun, some on ’em was to collar him and tote him 
to Labrydor, a’thinkin hit were Manning! ” 

“ Great land of liberty Honey! Ef ye kin work 
that thar it would beat ary trick played endurin’ of 
the whole war! ” 

And Jerry answered: “ Granny, I’m a’goin’ to 
git onto the pony and circle ’round like. I’m purty 
nigh plumb sartin to run onto some of these fellers 
a’huntin’ Manning. Ef I finds they is frum somewhar 
clean away frum Osage, and not a’knowin’ many in 
that thar settlemint, why I’ll jest nacherly let ’em 
into the secret that Manning is a’snorin’ in my 
Granny’s loft, and I’ll agree to take ’em to him fur ten 
dollars! ” 

“ Great Gineral Jackson, Honey! ” cried the 
delighted old woman, “ ye are Boon plumb to the 


268 


A Drama of the Hills 


bone, shore! Now light right out, and ef ye work hit 
I’ll — I’ll — yes by all that’s good I’ll deed ye this 
hyar forty acres tomorrer! So I will! ” 

So Jerry mounted his pony again, and started on his 
quest of some one authorized to arrest a fugitive from 
justice. He rode in a wide circle around the old lady’s 
clearing, but for a long time he saw no human being. 
He was nearly ready to abandon his plan and return 
to the cabin, when he was startled by coming face to 
face with two men just as they turned out of a bridle 
path into the main road. 

They were on horseback, and each carried a double 
barrelled shot gun across the saddle, as well as a 
revolver strapped around his waist. 

“ Hyar boy,” one of them cried, “ what ye doin’ 
with Sheriff Morton’s pony? I done sold him that 
thar pony myself, fur that curly haided gyrl of hisn, 
better’n a year ago. I raised the critter on my farm 
ten mile t’other side of Labrydor.” 

Jerry was delighted in thus easily learning the 
region from which his questioner came, and he hurried 
to reply: 

“ Why Mister, of course hit’s Morton’s pony. Is 
you fellers a’huntin’ fur that murderin’ Manning? ” 
“ Yes we is, but what’s that got to do along of you 
bein’ a’straddle of Morton’s pony? ” 

“ Well jest this much,” said Jerry, “ I were in 
Labrydor this mornin’ on my way to Restful whar I 
lives. I met Morton and he done told me about 
Manning a’gittin’ away, and how he ’lowed he mought 


In Which Jerry Betrays a Prisoner 269 

be somewheres in the naberhood of my Granny’s 
farm, out this a’way. And bein’ as I were raised hyar, 
and knowin’ to every hog path in the settlement, he 
’lowed he’d send me along with two or three fellers 
out hyar, whilst him and a whole passle of others 
would swing in and come up frum ’tother side like, and 
maybeso ketch the feller betwixt the two bunches of 
us. 

“ Well sir, we rode purty hard all day and never 
seed hide nur hair of the murderer, and a bit ago my 
fellers they gin up and started fur home. Then I rid 
over to my Grand Maw’s to git me a bite of somethin’ 
to eat, and by the Lawd Harry, ef Manning hisself 
ain’t asleep in my Granny’s loft, and snorin’ to beat 
ary brass band ever ye heered! ” 

“ What’s that,” shouted one of the men, “ Asleep 
in the old woman’s loft ye say! By G—d kid, take us 
thar right quick, and we’ll shore capter him! ” 

“ Well now,” drawled Jerry, “ they says thar’s a 
thousand dollars fur them that ketches him. How 
much ye ’low ye’ll give me of hit? ” 

“ Oh D—n hit come on, we’ll treat ye fair. Come 
now lead the way or I’ll see ef yer hide’ll stand agin 
a load of buck shot! ” And as he spoke he raised his 
gun to his shoulder. 

But Jerry very well knew, as he afterwards said, 
that this was “ Jest a fool bluff,” and he spoke as 
unconcernedly as before. 

“Ye cain’t skeer me Mister! Ye cain’t make me 
tell ye ary word unte’l ye do what’s fair by me.” 


270 


A Drama of the Hills 


“Well then, ye devil’s imp,” shouted the man, out 
of all patience, “ what is it ye want! ” 

And Jerry answered with all due deliberation: “ Ef- 
sobe ye two fellers will give me right hyar five dollars 
each I’ll shore take ye to Granny’s and show ye the 
feller, and ye kin keep yer old thousand dollars ye are 
so durned skeered of! ” 

“ All right, that’s a bargain,” said the excited men, 
and in a minute Jerry had two five dollar bills hidden 
in his ragged jacket, and was leading at full gallop 
for the cabin. 

He found matters there just as he had left them, and 
assuring his grandmother that “ These hyar fellers is 
a’lookin’ fur Manning, and has given me ten dollars to 
show him to ’em,” he winked at the old lady, and 
beckoned the man hunters into the cabin. 

“ Listen now,” he said, “ hear the feller a’snorin’ 
don’t ye? Pore feller I’m a’most sorry I tole ye about 
him, but I do need them ten dollars most bad too! ” 

The men listened; their ears demonstrated the fact 
that some man was certainly snoring heavily in the 
loft overhead, and drawing their revolvers they crept, 
one after the other up the ladder. The old woman and 
Jerry listened, almost unable to control their desire to 
shout with laughter, but realizing all that was at 
stake managed to maintain perfect silence. Then the 
loose floor boards of the loft rattled under two pairs 
of feet stealing upon the sleeper, and then a rough 
voice spoke: 

“ Wake up here Manning! The jig’s up. You 


In Which Jerry Betrays a Prisoner 271 

are our prisoner.” The words were evidently accom¬ 
panied by a vigorous shaking of the sleeper, for the 
loose boards rattled more than ever. 

“ Wake up tell ye,” the voice continued, “ Wake up. 
Hyar Jim pop them bracelets onto him. Thar that’s 
better. Now I’ll kindly take yer gun and amminition. 
Great Gosh Manning, but ye travels heeled! I’ll 
be d—d ef ye don’t tote amminition enough to run 
the regler army! ” 

Then another voice spoke: “ Name ishn’t Man- 
ningsh; Name’sh—hie—Ed Waltonsh! ” 

“ Oh come off the perch ye drunk fool. We’all 
knows who ye be all right, all right.” And the 
listeners heard the sound of the heavy form of the 
putative Manning dragged over the rattling boards. 
Then one man came down the ladder holding as best 
he could a pair of kicking struggling legs, while by 
degrees the rest of the captive’s body appeared, let 
down by the arms through the hole that served as an 
entrance to the loft. His arms were not long enough, 
so for the last two or three feet of the distance the 
prisoner was dropped, and sat down on the rough 
puncheon floor with such emphasis as instantly to 
restore his powers of speech, for he broke into such a 
torrent of curses, and showed such fluency of damna¬ 
tory statements that one of his captors made haste to 
stop the stream of vituperation by taking an exceed¬ 
ingly dirty red bandanna handkerchief out of his 
pocket, and artistically bandaged the fellow’s mouth 
in such shape as to render him instantly dumb. 


272 


A Drama of the Hills 


Then forcing him to mount one of their horses, with a 
rider in the saddle before him, they took up their 
march for Labrador, shouting and yelling in the 
exuberance of their joy at their great good fortune. 

When captive and captors were well beyond sight 
and hearing Mrs. Boon gathered her hopeful grandson 
to her bosom, and the pair screamed with laughter 
until completely exhausted. Twice that afternoon 
did men stop at the widow’s cabin in search of Man¬ 
ning. And twice were they regaled with a blood 
curdling account of the capture of the desperate mur¬ 
derer, in the very home of the virtuously indignant 
Mrs. Boon! 

The searchers listened to these accounts open 
mouthed, and went their ways to tell to all they met, 
the news that Manning was again taken and safely 
on his way to the county seat, and certain execution. 
All of which helped materially in the plan of getting 
the genuine Manning safely bestowed in hiding once 
more. For it sent to their homes all the searchers in 
the immediate neighborhood of the stable loft where 
he lay waiting the night so that he could make his 
last stage to John Hampton’s hiding hole. 


CHAPTER XXVII 
A Dash through the Night 

Mary Manning had been so terribly excited at her 
narrow escape, the revelations of the murderer Bran¬ 
son in his drunken frenzy, and her capture of the 
ruffian, that when she had mounted the black horse, 
and started on her journey to Knoxville, the reaction 
was almost enough to cause her to reel and fall from 
the saddle. She had taken but little food during the 
day, and the attack of Branson followed by the swift 
series of events afterwards had left no time to think 
of food, and she now found herself almost fainting 
with hunger. 

But the steady pounding of the great hoofs upon 
the frozen road, and the rush of the cold night air 
helped her. Then better than all else, was the knowl¬ 
edge that in her hands was the key to the whole 
mystery that had clouded her life, and that of the 
husband whom she loved; the means of clearing his 
good name, saving his life, and swinging wide to them 
both, the doors of a vast and glowing future. These 
thoughts thrilled her, with a very ecstasy of joy, 
until she forgot pain, and hunger, and weariness, and 
could have sung aloud for sheer happiness. 

At first the horse had shown every symptom of 
rebellion against having to carry on his back a being 


274 


A Drama of the Hills 


clad in garments that fluttered around his flanks at 
every leap. For most of the wild dash down hill for 
a long mile the brute was standing either on his hind 
feet, trying to shake off his rider; or on his fore feet 
endeavoring to kick away elusive garments that per¬ 
sisted in fluttering around him as he ran. 

But he soon discovered that the hand on his bridle, 
while not so heavy or cruel as the one to which he had 
become accustomed, was still firm enough to force 
him to do the will of its owner. And when a final 
desperate effort to throw that rider brought half a 
dozen stinging cuts around his ribs, laid on with the 
heavy raw hide quirt that always hung on that saddle, 
he evidently decided that he was helpless, and settled 
down to a magnificent swing that threw the miles 
behind him at a wonderful rate. 

It was nearly midnight when Mary began her ride, 
and day was rising over the eastern mountains when, 
wearied almost to death; muddy from ankle to waist; 
pale and dishevelled, she at last sighted the lights of 
Knoxville. They put new life into her, and her keen 
desire to get the news she carried to her father, in 
time to save Norman, drove all other thoughts from 
her mind. Little recked she of weariness, hunger, cold, 
or draggled garments; Norman was in deadly peril, 
and only her hand could free him from it. So through 
the streets of the little mountain city the great black 
horse flew at a pace in defiance of all ordinances 
regulative of speed. A sleepy policeman awoke sud¬ 
denly and yelled: “ Hold on there! ” And discovered 


A Dash Through the Night 


275 


that by that time the rider was in the middle of the 
next block! And so at full run up to the depot she 
swept. She got down from the saddle so lame and 
cramped from the long hours of her ride as to be hardly 
able to stand upright; yet she succeeded in tying the 
horse and limped into the station. Asking for a 
blank she had her message written and signed, and 
was just handing it to the operator when a voice 
behind her said: 

“ Is there a stage from Knoxville to Brock’s Mills?” 
Before the astonished agent could answer the ques¬ 
tion Mary had whirled on her heel screaming: 

“ Daddy! Daddy! Oh thank God it’s Daddy! ” 
And the sheriff startled out of all control over his 
feelings gathered her into his great arms and cried, 
as the tears ran unchecked down his cheeks: “ Why 
My God! Its Mary! Its Mary! ” over and over 
again as if there was nothing else in human speech 
worth the saying. Two or three rough mountain men 
and women in the room looked on, and the tears were 
in their eyes too, for here indeed was that “ touch of 
nature which makes the whole world kin.” 

When their first transports had somewhat subsided 
the sheriff, his arms still clasping his darling, said: 

“ Why Mary Honey, what brought ye hyar so early? 
Looks like ye had rid horseback all night, too! ” 

“ That’s just what I have done, Daddy. I have 
come thirty miles on horseback since midnight! ” 

“ Good Lord! But what for Honey? ” 

“ Read that,” she said, and thrust into his hand the 


276 A Drama of the Hills 

message she had just written. “ I rode to send that 
to you.” 

Morton read, and, as he afterwards said, it seemed 
to him that “ A thousand tons weight was lifted from 
his heart.” “ What Mary,” he shouted, “ Ye got 
track of Branson! Whar is he? Let me git arter 
him, I’ll git him shore! Ye betcher I’ll git him! ” 

And then Mary laughed one of her old care-free 
laughs, as she said: “ You are too late Daddy! I 
captured him myself, and I left him under guard, and 
with the irons on his wrists! Now let’s get started 
back, and take him with us to Missouri! ” 

The sheriff was literally stricken dumb, until the 
fearsome thought occurred to him, that perhaps her 
prolonged trials had affected Mary’s reason. But a 
glance at her face reassured him, and he took her arm 
and led her to the hotel. Here, while waiting for 
breakfast to be served Mary told him of her experi¬ 
ences during the last few days. Morton listened 
speechless and breathless until the amazing tale was 
told. The light that burned deep in his eyes as he 
heard the successive deeds of deviltry carried through 
by Branson, boded no good to that gentleman when 
they should meet! But he heard it all, and then he 
sprang to his feet, gathered his girl into his arms 
again, and waltzed around the little parlor until the 
landlady came running, thinking that an insane man 
had taken possession of her hostelry. 

“ Now then Honey,” said the sheriff as they sat at 
the table, “ we have be’n in sech a whirl ever sence we 


A Dash Through the Night 277 

met up, that I ain’t had no chanst to tell ye my passle 
of news. How ye reckin I come to be hyar jest when 
I did? ” 

“ Oh I never stopped to think about that before, 
but indeed it wouldn’t surprise me now to have you 
tell me that the Lord sent an angel to let you know 
how awfully I needed you! But tell me Daddy how 
was it? ” 

“Well I never s’picioned him a’bein’ an angel, but 
maybeso now he were one too. Leastways no angel 
could have done the job no better. It were jest that 
pore little Jerry Boon brought me the message.” 

“ Jerry Boon! poor little man, but how did he 
know anything about me? ” And in answer the 
sheriff put into her hand the sadly crumpled and 
begrimed paper on which Manning had written the 
words that brought him to Mary’s help: “ That’s 
what Jerry brung me,” he said. 

“ Oh Daddy! its Norman’s writing! ” she cried, 
and as she finished reading the little scrawl testifying 
of her husband’s loving care for her, even when in the 
midst of deadly peril himself, the tears overflowed her 
eyes, and she pressed the bit of paper to her lips 
again and again. 

“Now daughter,” said her father, “ I’ll tell ye how 
Norman come to be where Jerry could git that thar 
paper from him.” And in as few words as possible 
he told as nearly as he could in the words which Jerry 
had told it to him, and with shouts of laughter the 
story of Manning’s escape; his arrival at Mrs. Boon’s 


278 


A Drama of the Hills 


cabin; and the appearance of Jerry at the Labrador 
depot, just in time to keep him from losing another 
whole day in coming to her rescue. Then how his 
conference with Jerry in the jail parlor had started 
the boy on Mary’s pony to enlist John Hampton and 
Tom Leathers for immediate active service. 

He told her too of his call upon Colonel Barton, and 
of that veteran’s extravagant joy at Manning’s 
escape, and his positive assurance of clearing him on 
a new trial. An assurance turned now into positive 
certainty by Mary’s capture of the self confessed 
murderer. 

“ And just to think Daddy,” said Mary, with the 
tears still shining in her eyes, “ Just to think that my 
brave darling’s escape would have only been for a very 
short time if it hadn’t been for that poor little Jerry! 
Oh if I ever do get back to dear old Lafleet I mean to 
have that boy for my very own, God bless him! ” 

“ Well now daughter,” said Morton, “ I’d be’n 
kinder plannin’ to git him fur myself. Looks like you 
have Norman, and ye ought not to begredge me the 
boy. I ’low to take him from old Fain anyway, and 
amongst us all we’ll see he has a chanst to be a man.” 

And Mary answered, with her cheek against her 
father’s: “ We won’t quarrel over him Daddy, that’s 
certain. Only somehow we must make sure that old 
wretch of a Fain never gets him again. And as you 
say, we must see that the poor abused little fellow has 
a fair chance in the world.” 

And then, breakfast finished, the carriage they had 


A Dash Through the Night 


279 


ordered was at the door, and the big black horse 
which had so greatly aided in his master’s undoing, 
left in a stable, the driver mounted the box and the 
sheriff and his daughter were speeding over the road 
to the little cabin on the mountain side. 

It was not long before relief from the long strain, 
coupled with her father’s presence and the easy mo¬ 
tion of the carriage, lulled Mary into a deep sleep, and 
with her head on the sheriff’s shoulder and his arm 
around her, she slumbered away mile after mile of the 
long road. It was past noon, and they were well 
upon the last half of their journey, when the halting 
of the carriage at a wayside inn awoke Mary. That 
brought her arms around her father’s neck, and her 
kisses upon his lips, as she chided herself for wearying 
him, and thanked him for letting her sleep. 

“NowHoney,” said Morton in reply, “I ain’t had as 
good a time a’holdin’ my little girl sence before she went 
away to school. Like’s not another fellow will be 
a’claimin’ a better right agin we gits back to Lafleet! ” 

And Mary blushed and pretended to box his ears, 
and both laughed as happily as little children at play. 
“ Oh Daddy,” cried Mary, “ just to think of the awful 
trap I was in, only last night! And Norman a pris¬ 
oner in danger of his life. And now Norman is safe, 
and I am safe, and you are here, and we are going to 
Norman and dear old Lafleet in a day or two! Oh 
it seems all too good to be true! ” And she laid her 
head on her father’s shoulder, and shed tears of purest 
happiness and thanksgiving. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 
The Old Jail has a Prisoner Again 

Although the strategy of Jerry and Mrs. Boon 
had resulted in the arrest and conveyance to Labrador 
of a substitute for Manning the old lady had not lived 
her four score years to be caught napping in the 
evening of her days. Bo she would by no means allow 
Manning to descend again from his hiding place until 
after darkness had fully fallen. Even then she made 
him stop in the gloom of the stable while she and Jerry 
took turns working at the handcuffs with an old file, 
resurrected from the ancient blacksmithing tools left 
by her husband. The file was dull, and the steel of the 
handcuffs was hard, and it was only after more than 
an hour of steady labor that the second wristlet was 
severed, and Manning’s hands were once more free. 

Then the vigilant old dame led her visitor and her 
grandson to the house and set them down to a feast, 
of which the menu as announced by herself, was: 
“ Corn pone; Sow belly; Black coffee; and Sour 
Gum merlasses!*” But it was clean, well cooked and 
wholesome, and by this time Manning’s appetite was 
in no condition to be squeamish, and he did justice 
to the plain fare equal to that done by Jerry himself, 
than which there could be no stronger statement! 


The Old Jail has a Prisoner Again 281 

Even while the two were eating, the shrewd old 
lady forbade them to light a lamp, lest it should betray 
Manning’s presence to some prowler. Meanwhile the 
old dame perched upon a stump in her door yard, 
smoked her cob pipe, and watched with keenest eyes 
against the approach of an enemy. 

The meal disposed of, Manning and Jerry prepared 
to start for the rendezvous with Tom Leathers. 
Before so doing Manning again tried to express to the 
old woman something of his appreciation of her kind¬ 
ness, and was stopped by her almost angrily: 

“ That thar’s all right, tell ’ee! ” she said with all 
earnestness, “ I never till yit went back on a friend, 
nur on ary one who hed be’n good to me or mine. 
Likeways I never till yit let up a’larrupin’ them as 
hurted me, nur them as were mine! So good luck to 
ye, and may ye best them Waltons, devil and all! ” 

The woods were intensely dark and Norman could 
not see his hand before his face. But Jerry, with the 
instinct that is born in every hill boy, the inheritance 
from a long ancestry of hill sires, Indian fighters 
and bushwhackers, trod the narrow trails with as much 
assurance as if it had been high noon. 

In about an hour and a half Jerry halted at the foot 
of an unusually high and thickly wooded hill, and 
said: 

“ This hyar’s the hill we was to come to. Big 
road’s down in the holler thar, maybe fifty yard. 
I ’low we’d better set down hyar and wait unte’l 
Tom comes.” 


282 


A Drama of the Hills 


Only too glad to rest Norman stretched himself 
on the frozen ground, and his thoughts swiftly flew 
away to the mountains of East Tennessee. He 
thanked God that Morton was now well on his way to 
Mary’s help. And he prayed as never before that the 
God of innocence and purity would protect and care 
for his darling. At that very hour as we know, Mary 
was a prisoner in hands far more cruel than death! 
Ah well it is sometimes, that we know not the need 
that our prayers for our dear ones be answered! 

It was late when at last they heard the distant 
rumble of a heavy wagon, and Jerry leaving Manning 
where he was, slipped down to the road. “ I’m a heap 
easier hid nur you be,” he said, “ and we don’t want 
to git trope up at the last jump now! ” 

Manning waited until he heard the wagon stop, and 
Jerry’s challenge: “ Hello thar! ” 

Then the heavy and unmistakable bass of the 
blacksmith replied: “ That you Jerry? All right son, 
whar’s t’other feller? ” 

At Leathers’ elbow a voice answered: “ Here I am 
old friend! ” and in the instant Norman found himself 
literally picked up in the giant’s arms, and squeezed 
as if in the grip of a Rocky Mountain grizzly! “ Thar 
now,” chuckled the big fellow, “ maybeso now ye 
won’t be so brash a’skeerin’ a little feller like me agin!” 

As this was said the fugitive found himself raised 
and put on the wagon seat as if he were a little boy, 
instead of a stalwart six footer. Then the wagon 
turned, Jerry disappeared in the woods with a cheery: 


The Old Jail has a Prisoner Again 283 

“ Good luck to ye! ” and the final stage of Manning’s 
journey from Tennessee began. The team had lost 
none of its traveling properties, and Leathers pro¬ 
ceeded, as he expressed it, to “ Jest let ’em slide fur 
keeps! ” They rattled up hill and down; slackened 
not for smooth road nor rough, “ Fur,” said honest 
Tom, “ hit’s good fifteen mile, and hit ain’t three hours 
unte’l day. But we’ll make hit all right, never ye 
worrit, we’ll make hit.” 

But swiftly as they drove, and confident as the 
blacksmith was of their safe arrival at John Hamp¬ 
ton’s, they were not to attain that haven of refuge 
without one more brush with the enemy. 

They had reached a ljevel stretch of sandy road in a 
narrow valley, where the timber was unusually thick, 
and the darkness correspondingly great. The horses’ 
hoofs and the wagon wheels made but little sound in 
the sandy roadway, when the sharp ears of the black¬ 
smith caught the clink of a horse shoe against a stone 
in the darkness ahead. “ Quick Norman,” he 
whispered, “ duck down in the bottom of the waggin. 
Hit’s so dark maybeso this feller a’comin’ won’t 
git to see ye.” He had not ceased speaking before 
Manning had done as suggested, and was crouching 
low behind the dashboard, and under the wagon seat. 
Then a voice spoke out of the darkness close beside 
them: 

“ Halt a minute stranger. I must see who ye be! ” 

“ The devil ye must! ” thundered Leathers’ great 
voice, “ How long sence ye were ’lected to hold up a 


284 A Drama of the Hills 

man a’goin’ along the road a’lnindin’ of his own 
bizness? ” 

“ Halt I tell ye! ” was the answer the speaker evi¬ 
dently trying to keep at their side, and finding it 
difficult to do so on account of the narrow track. 

“ Halt I tell ye! Or by G—d I’ll make ye! ” and 
there was the sharp click of a revolver being cocked. 
And then something happened to that horseman! 
He always claimed that he was hit with a sledge 
hammer, or some equally weighty weapon, but 
Leathers as strenuously asserted that he “ jest fanned 
him like, with the pa’m of his hand! ” 

At all events the meddlesome one was caught full 
in the face by something big and hard, and swung with 
tremendous force. He instantly beheld all the stars 
in the zodiac in one blaze of splendor, and in the same 
second was literally swept backward out of the saddle 
and over the crupper, and lit upon the frozen earth 
with a jar that renewed the entire display of the 
heavenly bodies again! And when his shaken wits 
finally recovered themselves he found that his horse 
had fled, that the wagon and its driver had passed out 
of hearing, and that he was five miles from home, and 
on foot. 

“ Durned fool,” c'o fomented the blacksmith, “next 
time he pulls a gun on me I'll hit him, I will, ’stid of 
jest allayin’ with him.” 


Meanwhile the exultant captors of the alleged 
Manning had ridden hard and late, and arrived in 























* * k. 


















The Old Jail has a Prisoner Again 285 

Labrador with their prisoner soon after midnight. 
They hastened to the jail, and after much effort 
succeeded in arousing the assistant jailer, in charge 
during Morton’s absence. This worthy at length 
opened the corridor door, and yawning fearfully, and 
not more than half awake, led the way to cell No. 2, 
and swung wide the door. 

The long ride in the cold had effectually cleared the 
prisoner’s head from the effect of the liquor he had 
swallowed, and he was not only sober, but so fearfully 
angry at the treatment accorded him that he put up a 
manful fight against being incarcerated in that musty 
cell. But the dirty bandanna was still doing its full 
duty and he was unable to make an intelligible sound, 
so that his struggle only resulted in angering his 
captors, who dragged him by main strength into the 
cell, and threw him onto the hard bed with such force 
as to render him quiet for a minute, by which time the 
jailer and the two captors passed out of the cell and 
the door was locked on an indignant and impotent 
captive. 

With the dawn of day the exciting news flew through 
the town that Manning had been captured again, 
and was now once more in his cell in the Lafleet 
County jail. Probably nothing in the long series 
of incidents resulting from the murder of James 
Walton aroused such a furore of interest as this. 
Long before the usual breakfast hour housewives had 
the meal upon the tables. No sooner was it hastily 
bolted than the entire population, from doddering 


286 


A Drama of the Hills 


grandfathers to babes in arms, poured into the streets 
to discuss the tidings. 

Colonel Barton occupied a large white house on the 
outskirts of town, and thus was ignorant of the news 
until on his way to his office at his usual hour of eight 
o’clock. 

“ Hello John,” he said to a friend, “ what’s the 
excitement? Haven’t seen so many people on the 
streets since show day.” 

“ Why Colonel,” was the answer, “ haven’t you 
heard the news? They caught Manning last night, 
and he is hard and fast in jail again.” 

“ The devil you say! ” cried the Colonel, “ I rather 
expected that. Never mind, I’ll clear him this time, 
for I am dead sure of a new trial.” 

“ But Colonel,” said his friend, glancing cautiously 
around, to make sure there were none other within 
hearing, “ I’ll tell you something if you won’t mention 
my name in it. Half a dozen men already have lit 
out on horse back to notify the Waltons, and they 
swear they’ll hang him this time before Harry Morton 
gets back to interfere with them. I look for them 
here in a big mob by noon anyway.” 

This news indeed startled the old lawyer, for he saw 
how easily such a plan could be carried out. He 
realized, too, that he would not be able to rally a force 
of his friends sufficiently strong to protect the pris¬ 
oner. For once in his strenuous life he was in a 
quandary, and in order to deliberate on some feasible 
plan in Manning’s behalf he hastened to his office. 


The Old Jail has a Prisoner Again 287 

He lit his pipe, flung coat, hat, and vest in as many- 
different directions as there were garments, and 
tilting his chair against the wall proceeded to pour out 
dense volumes of smoke. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

The Colonel Hears Some More News 

Hardly had the Colonel begun to rally his wits to the 
consideration of the problem before him, than the 
door opened and Littleberry Smallwood entered. 

“ Hellity damn! ” yelled the Colonel, “ Can’t a 
man have a minute away from that clacking gang on 
the street but you must come a’buttin’ in where you 
ain’t wanted! ” 

But this inhospitable reception so far from frighten¬ 
ing Uncle Littleberry, left him standing with back 
against the door, and giggling in an imbecile way that 
aggravated the old soldier nearly to the point of 
explosion. 

“ Say! ” he shouted, “ you little dried up mummy 
of an ape, what you after up here? Here’s Manning 
gone and got hisself caught and jailed again! Here’s 
the whole d—d generation of Waltons rallying to hang 
him quick’s they can get here! and as if that ain’t 
enough here you come giggling and sniggering like a 
sick monkey! Speak up now, and do it P. D. Q., too, 
or I’ll throw ye out the window! ” 

“ He-he-he ” tittered Uncle Littleberry, “ hit’s 
all right Colonel. Jest hold yer tater won’t ye? I 
run up to tell ye the news. That thar feller in jail 
ain’t Manning no more’n I be! ” 


The Colonel Hears Some More News 289 

“ What! ” and the Colonel leaped to his feet as if 
to tear the lictle man limb from limb! “ It ain’t 
Manning! Who in tarnation is it then? And how in 
time did ye ketch on! ” 

“ Hit’s jest that little cuss of a Jerry Boon done 
hit, Colonel. Hyar half a hour ago me and Mealie was 
a’settin’ thar at home skeered of our lives at the talk 
of them a’hangin’ Manning, when hyar comes Jerry 
a’ridin’ that thar little pot bellied pony of the sheriff’s. 
He come up the alley back of my house, tied the pony 
to the fence and snoke in like he wasn’t a’wantin’ to be 
seen. Then when I axed him did he know Manning 
were took agin, durned ef the little toad didn’t double 
hisself up larfin’ tel’ I were fit to break his neck. 
And then he ups and tells me. 

“ Seems like the woods was full yisterday around 
the Widder Boon’s place, with fellers a’huntin’ 
Manning. Yes sir, and him a’lyin’ the endurin’ day 
buried in the hay in the old woman’s stable loft! 
Well ’long about two hour by sun hyar come one of the 
hunters, a big black haired devil, drunk, and hollerin’, 
and butts into the widder’s house, sets down in a 
cheer, and cuts up plumb scan’lus. ’Lowed they’d 
git Manning this time shore, and burn him to the 
stake, and a lot of sech trash. Well Colonel, that old 
lady is about as peert as they makes them, and she 
gits out her jug of bug juice and stands treat to that 
feller. And she jines with him a cussin’ Manning, 
and ’lows the feller is plumb right. And she’d like to 
holp burn the murderer, and sich, unte’l she has that 


290 


A Drama of the Hills 


critter adornin' her way, and her all the time a’passin’ 
the jug te’l she gits him plumb full! But afore he gits 
clean down and out she gits him up into the cabin loft, 
and he were a’snorin’ in five minutes. 

“ Then hyar comes that little cuss of a Jerry, and 
he puts up a job on that drunk fool, and the old 
woman, she jines. So Jerry he lights out and finds two 
fellers a’huntin’ Manning, and tells ’em how efsobe 
they’ll give him ten dollars he’ll show ’em whar 
Manning is a’sleepin’! And Sir’ee! Ef he didn’t 
show me them ten dollars I’m a liar and a yankee! 

“Well them fellers they swallered the bait hook, 
bob, and sinker! And shore ’nuff Jerry he showed 
them the man asleep in his grandmaw’s loft! He 
were so tight that he couldn’t do nothin’ exceptin’ of 
cussin’, and Jerry says he did do that amazin’! They 
ties a bandanny hankercher over his mouth, and hand¬ 
cuffs him, and putts him onto one of their hosses, and 
deelivers him to jestice! Colonel, I ain’t tuk a dram 
sence I got religion, but ef you’ll come along d—d ef 
I don’t set ’em up in the best red likker in Lafleet 
County! ” 

To see the Colonel then was a sight worth a long 
journey to behold. He danced a double shuffle! he 
cut a pigeon wing that would have made a profes¬ 
sional pale with envy! he seized Uncle Littleberry 
and swung the little man around in the wildest possi¬ 
ble caricature of a waltz! he laughed until he cried, 
and finally completely exhausted with his antics, he 
sank into his chair to catch his breath. 


The Colonel Hears Some More News 291 

“ Well Littleberry,” he said, “ we don’t want no 
drams today. There’ll be fun a’goin’ agin the Waltons 
come ridin’ in to hang Manning, and we want to have 
our eyes open to see it. Who is the fellow in the jail? 
Did that kid tell you? ” 

“ Jerry said the feller tried to tell them who he 
were afore they gagged him, and the boy thought he 
said his name was Ed Walton.” 

“ There now! ” cried the Colonel, “ there is an Ed 
Walton. Great big ornery black haired hog thief! 
It ’ud be a good thing ef they did hang him! ” 

As they talked Uncle Littleberry was sitting where 
he could look from the window and across the square. 
Suddenly he jumped up and said: “ Hyar’s that thar 
tellygraph feller frum the deepo, and he’s a’comin’ 
on the run. Got a yaller tellygraph paper in his hand 
and is a’wavin’ of hit like he wanted you to see hit.” 

At that the Colonel stepped to the window, and 
the excited operator shouted: “ Big news for you 
Colonel,” and sprang up the stairs three steps at a 
jump, and into the office on the run. 

“ For God’s sake Colonel,” he cried, “ read that! ” 

And the Colonel read Morton’s message from Knox¬ 
ville, telling of Branson’s arrest and confession. 
“ Well by all the saints and angels,” he shouted, “ I 
knew he was going to Tennessee to get Mary, but 
here he says that he has Branson in custody, and that 
Mary captured him! MARY captured him! Think 
of that! ” 

“ For the Lord’s sake Colonel read hit out,” 


292 


A Drama of the Hills 


squeaked Uncle Littleberry, “ Durned ef I don’t 
beleeve the whole ’tarnal world has done gone crazy! ” 
“Well then here it is,” said the Colonel: 

“ Knoxville, Tenn. Jan. 18th. 188- 

“ To Colonel Jabez Barton, Labrador, Mo. 

“ I have Jacob Branson here in custody. He has 
confessed killing James Walton. Mary captured him 
single handed before I got here. Apply for extradi¬ 
tion papers and send to me here. May persuade him 
to come without waiting for them. If so hope to 
reach Labrador with him and Mary, Friday. Tell 
Manning! Signed, Harry Morton! ” 

“ Great Jehosaphat Jackson Jones! ” squealed 
Littleberry, “ Colonel, I don’t need no dram now! 
that thar tellygram would make a dead man come to 
life, plumb drunk and hollerin’! ” 

And the more they considered that wonderful 
message the greater grew the marvel. “ How in the 
Devil do you suppose that infernal Branson ever 
managed to run agin Mary? And how, ten thousand 
times HOW, did that pretty little slip of a woman 
capture a great big gorilla like him! ” 

“ Say,” said the operator, “ let’s tell the crowd.” 
But the Colonel instantly vetoed that, and explained 
to the astonished fellow that the prisoner in jail was 
not Manning. 

“ Let’s wait until they come, and then, when they 
take the fellow out to hang him, and find out that 
they are sold a second time then watch me rub it into 
’em with this telegram! D—d fools, trying now fur 


The Colonel Hears Some More News 293 

better’n a year to hang an innocent man, and all the 
time one of their own ornery kin was the guilty feller! 
I told ’em so too, told ’em so a thousand times, and 
now if I don’t give it to ’em with the trimmings it’ll 
be because I am struck dumb first! 

“ Now then,” he added, 11 that I know we are out 
of the woods I don’t give a whoop whether school 
keeps or not; Let’s go down and knock around in 
the crowd a bit, and listen to what they are say¬ 
ing.” 

So the Colonel and Littleberry Smallwood circulated 
through the thronged square. There was little noise 
in the crowd, the excitement was too deep for that. 
The tragedy that all but four individuals supposed to 
be impending, blanched the cheeks and silenced 
the chatter of even the most frivolous and talka¬ 
tive. 

“ What’s the matter with yous all? ” said Little- 
berry to a prominent member of the Waltons, who 
being a resident of Labrador was on the scene before 
the rest of his tribe appeared, “ What’s the matter 
of ye anyway? Look es solum es if ye’d swallered a 
whole roostin’ of owls! ” 

“ Uncle Littleberry,” answered the man soberly, 
“ Hit’s a mighty solemn matter to be a hangin’ a man; 
and that’s what’s to be did before long! ” 

“ Shucks! So ye ’lows ye are goin’ to hang a man 
does ye? I got ten dollars says ye don’t hang nobody!” 

“ Here ye little old feller, I takes that bet,” cried a 
burly man in the listening group: “ Take all that 


294 


A Drama of the Hills 


kynd of money I kin git. Fur old man, we’re a’goin’ 
to git Manning this time, and we’ll hang him too, 
shore’s H—1, Unnerstan! ” 

“ Shucks! ” sneered another, “ he ain’t got no 
money to bet. He were jest talkin’ to heer hisself 
talk! ” 

But Uncle Littleberry was game, and casting a 
quick glance around to make sure that neither the 
Parson or Mealie were watching him, he pulled out his 
ten dollars and covered the fellow’s money. 

“ Any more of that kynd of money? ” shouted the 
man, “ I’m jest plumb hongry fur more of hit! Any 
more of hit around hyar? ” 

“ Yes Sir’ee there is! ” It was the Colonel’s voice 
this time. “ I’ll bet ye anywhere up to a thousand 
dollars that you don’t hang anybody in Labrador 
today! Now then ye big mouthed feller, its fur you 
to put up or shut up, See! ” 

This was indeed a bombshell in the camp of the 
would-be lynchers, and threw them into wild confu¬ 
sion. But after much whispering, and consultation, 
and counting of money, they came forward with a 
total of one hundred and fifty dollars, to accept the 
Colonel’s wager to that amount. 

“ All right,” said Barton, “ it’s a mighty small pile 
after so much squalling, but that’s all right. Now 
some feller take down the names and amounts each 
feller put into the pot, so I’ll know who I’m betting 
with.” And when this had been done three hundred 
dollars were deposited in bank, with instructions to 


The Colonel Hears Some More News 295 


the cashier as to the terms on which he was to pay it 
out. 

“ Any more of you fellers want to bet? Fm always 
ready to take a good thing, and I’ll accommodate you 
to any'reasonable amount! ” But by this time the 
crowd was wary, and the Colonel could not stir any of 
them up to the point of risking more money. 


CHAPTER XXX 

The Waltons arrive and Hear a Speech 

By this time the sun drew near the meridian, and a 
strange silence settled over the crowd. Excited 
squads of boys dashed at frequent intervals to the 
nearest point from which the Restful road could be 
viewed. Several times the appearance of a lone horse¬ 
man had led to a shout of: “ They’re coming! They’re 
coming! ” But the noon hour passed without any 
mob appearing, and some of the waiting throng de¬ 
clared that they “ Didn’t bleeve ary Waltons were 
a’comin. Like’s not the whole thing were a fake.” 
“ Bet ye ef they comes at all, they ’ll wait unte’l after 
dark.” Then just as these sentiments were rapidly 
gaining adherents, the alarm was raised once more, and 
this time the shrill cries of the boys were answered 
by a chorus of wild yells, a fusilade of pistol shots, 
and the clatter of hundreds of iron shod hoofs, as the 
Waltons rode into the square. 

Two hundred strong they came, two and two, with 
grim stern faced leaders at the head of the column. 
Evidently they intended that this time there should 
be no hitch in their program, and they had come with 
force enough to carry out their purpose against any 
possible resistance. Grimly and silently they rode 
around the square, and as they neared the jail sepa- 


The Waltons Arrive and Hear a Speech 297 

rated at a sharp word of command into two files of 
horsemen, which divided to right and left and without 
another sound circled around the old building until 
the two lines met. Thus in a moment they formed a 
living wall of horsemen, standing side by side, facing 
outward, elbow touching elbow, every man with his 
revolver in his right hand ready for instant use! A 
living wall indeed, far more effective than if it had been 
one of stone. 

Then half a dozen men dismounted and the leader 
pounded vigorously upon the jail door with the butt 
of his revolver. A window above opened and the head 
of the deputy sheriff appeared. 

“ What's wanted gentlemen? " he cried, in a voice 
which in spite of its volume distinctly trembled. 

“ Open up hyar inside a minute or down goes your 
door! " was the stern reply. 

“ But gentlemen," the jailer began again, not so 
loud voiced now, “ hit's agin law fur me to let ye in 
without court or sheriff orders me to." 

“ Oh ‘ law ' be d—d! " shouted the leader, in the 
true spirit of such an occasion. “ Now will ye or 
won't ye open this door? Ease ef ye won't we will, 
and hit won’t be any too healthy fur you neither, ef 
we has to do hit. Hyar boys, bring hyar them ham¬ 
mers! " Instantly two sturdy fellows stepped for¬ 
ward, each with a sledge hammer on his shoulder. 
But the keeper realizing that any further delay would 
not only be useless, but probably exceedingly danger¬ 
ous to himself, cried: 


298 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Hold on thar gentlemen, I’ll come down and open 
the door. Ain’t no use of bustin’ hit in.” And in a 
few moments the door swung wide and the leader, 
with a dozen or so picked men entered, leaving a 
strong guard around the entrance to provide against 
any possible attempt at rescue, or that any others of 
the mob itself should force their way into the 
jail. 

Taking the deputy with them the men made their 
way down the dark corridor to cell Number 2. The 
jailer, with a pistol at his ear made haste to unlock 
the door, and two men stepping in thrust the prisoner 
out into the corridor. Here he was seized by half a 
score of strong hands, and dragged unresisting out 
into the bright sunlight. 

The great bulk of the mob, seeing their victim thus 
at last in their hands, raised again and again the old 
yell of delight and victory. Some noticed with sur¬ 
prise that none joined more strenuously in these 
demonstrations than Uncle Littleberry and Colonel 
Barton! But if the main body of the lynchers shouted 
in exultation, there was clamor of a different nature in 
the inner circle which had the prisoner directly in 
charge! For the long suffering captive had at last 
gotten among those who would allow him to speak. 
One of them had torn the dirty bandanna from his 
mouth, and instantly he took such advantage of his 
restored privilege of speech, as to prove himself a 
past master in the art of eloquent and vituperative 
profanity! 


The Waltons Arrive and Hear a Speech 299 

“ Why God bless my soul! ” shouted the leader, as 
he caught the first glimpse of the captive’s face by 
daylight, “ this hyar ain’t no Manning! This hyar is 
Ed Walton hisself! One of our own crowd! Ed how 
in h—1 did ye git shet up in thar fur Manning? ” 

Almost beside himself with rage, and fairly choking 
for utterance, Ed Walton at last shouted: “ I were 
took fur Manning bekase them two dod blasted fools 
yander wouldn’t hear when I done told ’em I were 
Ed Walton. D—m it man, take off these hyar irons, 
fur I low to lick them two ornery whelps ef hit’s the 
last thing ever I do! ” 

While this colloquy was going on the astonishing 
news flew through the crowd outside, and was greeted 
with shouts of laughter, and the most unmerciful 
quizzing, and poking fun at the non-plussed Waltons. 
And these latter responding with a voluble and bril¬ 
liant flow of profanity the Public Square was in a 
babel of confusion of the wildest description. Colonel 
Barton, and Uncle Littleberry especially joined in the 
merriment until they were almost helpless from 
laughter. 

“ He-he-he! ” snickered the little shoemaker, almost 
unable to do more than snicker, “ didn’t I tell ye ye 
wouldn’t hang nobody? Two times now ye hev come 
mighty nigh to hangin’ a Walton! Yes and by gravy, 
ef I ain’t ten dollars to the good ye kin call me a 
Yankee! ” 

A thousand explanations of the fiasco found circula¬ 
tion. It was some sharp trick of Manning’s; it was a 


300 


A Drama of the Hills 


put up job of Colonel Barton’s; it was some fellow’s 
plan to throw the searchers off the track while they 
captured Manning themselves, and thus secured the 
reward. And so on each guess wilder and less probable 
than its predecessor. But little by little the explana¬ 
tions of the men who had brought in the putative Man¬ 
ning, and the fluently worded accounts of Ed Walton 
himself brought out the whole truth, and told of the 
brilliant part taken in the farce by old Granny Boon 
and her shrewd little grandson Jerry. And as the 
crowd realized the comical combination of circum¬ 
stances and the way in which the anxious searchers for 
fame and Manning had been bamboozled by an old 
woman and a little boy, the merriment increased ten 
fold, and the jokes and quips at the expense of Ed 
Walton and his whole fraternity, increased in number, 
force and wit, until the would-be lynchers were in a 
state bordering on utter distraction. At the same 
time all the ridicule to which they were subjected 
only added to their purpose of capturing the genuine 
Manning, and hanging him out of hand. 

But the intense excitement died down after a while, 
and with it much of the noise and confusion, and then 
Colonel Jabez Barton decided that the time for him to 
address his fellow citizens had arrived! So he sprang 
upon an empty goods box at a prominent corner and 
forming his hands into the original of all megaphones, 
put them to his mouth and shouted in a voice that 
carried far in all directions: “ Oh yes! Oh yes! 
Oh Yes! if all you people will gather here I’ve got 


The Waltons Arrive and Hear a Speech 301 

some news fur you that beats all ye ever heard! ” 

This unusual summons and the promise of more 
excitement rallied the crowd at once, and men flocked 
towards the center of interest from every point of the 
compass. Within a very few minutes the Colonel from 
his vantage point on the box, looked into the faces of 
a mass of people packed solidly into the space' before 
him. Then he raised his hand for silence and at the 
signal every voice was hushed and every eye was fixed 
upon the man on the box. 

“Now people,” the Colonel began, “ when I first 
heard that Jim Walton was murdered by some 
cowardly wretch, and that the Coroner’s jury said that 
Manning was the man that did it, I made up my mind 
that I’d volunteer to prosecute this stranger who had 
done such a deed. Not only so, but I meant to do it 
without thought of pay, for Jim Walton was one of 
my boys in the old regiment; he was a good man; 
and he was one of my closest friends. And when 
another of my old boys, and as good a man as ever 
lived, came and wanted me to defend Manning I was 
pretty near cussing him out of my office. Then he 
told me why he believed the boy was innocent, and 
he made me believe it too. And you all know that I 
was his lawyer, and am till yet. 

“ Now some of you fellers back yonder are feeling 
powerful sore over all that has happened.” Here the 
Colonel’s left hand began to push his hair upright upon 
his head, and one who understood the symptoms 
hunched his neighbor and said: 


302 A Drama of the Hills 

“ Gittin’ up steam now, he is! Hell’l be a poppin’ 
dreckly! ” 

“ Well,” continued the Colonel, “ I don’t wonder ye 
are sore! Here ye have be’n hounding an innocent 
man for better’n a year. Yes and today for the third 
time ye gethered to hang him! And worst of all is 
that you yourselves always had a strong suspicion 
that one of your own connection did the murder! 
No use squirming back there, you suspected Jake 
Branson, and you know you did. But ye just ’lowed 
that you’d hang Manning anyway, being he was poor 
and nearly a stranger, and so ye’d get the name of 
doing justice, and clar the stain off the Waltons at 
the same time.” 

“ Hyar Colonel,” shouted a great gray bearded 
fellow, thrusting himself through the crowd until he 
stood immediately in front of the old lawyer: “ Hyar! 
I hev allers be’n your friend, and I fit under ye endurin’ 
of the war, but,” and here he shook an immense fist 
almost in the Colonel’s face, “ I’ll jest be d—d ef I 
’low to stand hyar ary ’nother minute and listen to ye 
a’bemeanin’ us Waltons no more! Ef ye hev any 
proof agin ary man a’livin’ exceptin’ of Manning a’ 
doin’ of this murder, why show hit up. Ef ye cain’t do 
that the verdict of the coroner’s jury, and the circuit 
court jury stands! Ye unnerstan’? hit stands! And 
us Waltons will hunt Manning through hell but 
what we’ll git him. And when we gits him, 
we’ll hang him spite of you and all the likes of 
you this side of perdition! Now then put up your 


The Waltons Arrive and Hear a Speech 303 

proof ef ye kin, or shut up, or we’ll make ye 
do hit! See!” 

“ Shucks! ” sneered the Colonel, “ you should know 
two things Mart, long as you’ve knowed me: First 
there ain’t men enough in Lafleet County to skeer me, 
or make me shut my mouth unless they killed me 
first. And second: That I wouldn’t say what I have 
today if I didn’t have the proof ye are hollerin’ for. 
Now then enough of fooling! How many men here 
believe Harry Morton when he tells you anything? 
Let’s see your hands.” 

And at the word a perfect forest of right hands shot 
up into the air. “ Right you are! shouted the 
Colonel, “ for God A’mighty never made a more 
truthful man, nor a better one. Now friends a few 
days ago Morton got word that Manning’s wife, Harry 
Morton’s daughter Mary whom you nearly all know, 
was left alone in Tennessee when Manning was 
arrested, and that she needed help badly. At that he 
done just what any of you men who have daughters 
would have done, he started for Tennessee by the first 
train. 

“ Now this morning, when our friend yonder was 
waiting in jail for you to come and take him out to 
hang him for Manning, I got this telegram from 
Harry Morton, and I want you all to listen to it 
mighty close. It is dated at Knoxville, Tennessee 
early this forenoon.” 

And then without pause or comment the Colonel 
read aloud the marvelous message from the sheriff. 


304 


A Drama of the Hills 


And as the wonderful news sank into their minds that 
whole audience swayed back and forth like a wheat 
field swept by the wind. Here and there a shrill yelp 
was heard to express the joy of some men, who in 
spite of appearances had believed in Manning’s 
innocqnce. Here and there too, voiceless men turned 
and wrung each other’s hands with all the strength 
of their muscles; or a hysterical sob or laugh came 
from some overwrought woman; but again the 
Colonel raised his hand, and all sound instantly 
ceased. 

“ At first,” he said, “ I thought that I should say 
some mighty mean things to you men who came here 
to hang a man I knew to be innocent. But I know and 
I appreciate your provocation. I know how terribly 
you were stirred up by Jim’s murder, and I can see 
how the coroner’s verdict, and the conviction in 
circuit court gave you pretty strong grounds for 
thinking Manning guilty. I felt that way myself at 
first as I just told you. But now we know who the 
guilty man is; know it from his own lips, and I am 
going to Judge Donnell and apply for Manning to be 
admitted to bail. After that I shall move for a new 
trial at the first chance, and I would risk my life that 
there is not one man of you all who objects to my 
program! ” 

Then the same old man who had challenged the 
Colonel to produce his proof, leaped onto the box at 
the old lawyer’s side, and said: “ Listen men: All 
we Waltons want, or ever wanted in this thing, was 


The Waltons Arrive and Hear a Speech 305 

that jestice be done. We had good reason fur bleevin’ 
that Manning were guilty, and we’d shore a’got him 
sooner or later ef he hadn’t be’n proved to be inner- 
cent. 

“ Now fur me, I ’low to do the s,quar thing by him 
we was a’wantin’ to hang jest now. Colonel, I’ll go on 
the boy’s bail fur any amount the court’ll take me 
fur! ” 

“ Hyar too! ” “ Count me in on that! ” “ Shore! 
put me down too! ” The shouts came from every part 
of the throng. The quick sense of fair play inherent 
in the Ozark character; the feeling that but for that 
which was almost a miracle they would have hung an 
innocent man, urged them on to do their part to right 
the wrong, and ten times the amount of any bond at 
all likely to be required by the judge could have been 
had on the spot. 

“ Nary a name goes on that bond, Colonel,” 
shouted his friend of the heavy gray beard, “ Nary a 
name exceptin’ hit’s the name of one of us Waltons!” 

“ Bully for you boys,” shouted the Colonel in 
reply: “ I knew you’d do the square thing, once you 
knew what it was. By the way, you fellers who bet 
that hundred and fifty with me a bit ago, go to the 
bank and get your money. I told the cashier to 
return it to you, and that’s why I took the list of your 
names, and the amounts you each put into it. You 
see I never wanted your money, only I ’lowed I just 
had to call your bluff.” And again the crowd cheered, 
and there was much chaffing and laughter. 


CHAPTER XXXI 
In which Mr. Fain Takes a Bath 

Gradually the crowd broke up into little groups, 
each excitedly discussing the wonderful developments 
of the day. 

“ Gits me,” said a man in one of these groups, 
“ gits me how that little weasel of a Jerry Boon 
worked hit to fool them fellers into bringin’ in Ed 
Walton fur Manning! Bet ye the little chap were 
a’knowin’ all the time, and knows till yit jest where 
Manning is hidin’! ” 

“ Yas, durn his ornery little hide of him! ” squealed 
the voice of Jerry’s ancient tormentor Isaac Fain, 
“ he done runned away frum me, and now I ’low to 
take him along of me, and the way I’ll flail him with a 
big keen hickory’ll l’arn him somethin’, afore I’m 
done with him! ” 

“ He-he-he! So you ’low ye’ll git to lick the kid 
agin, does ye Ike Fain? Wal sir, I’m hyar to tell ye 
ye’ll do durn well to save yer own hide, let alone 
a’lickin’ of Jerry! ” And Uncle Littleberry bristled 
up to the indignant Mr. Fain much like a pugnacious 
sparrow, ruffling its feathers at a big hen hawk. 

“ What fool stuff ye talkin’ old man? ” growled 
Fain, “ the boy is proper bound to me unte’l he is 


In Which Mr. Fain Takes a Bath 307 


twenty-one year old. I hev the same right to lick 
him I used’er hev to lick an ornery nigger. Ye kin 
bet, ye little skiliton of a shoemaker, ye kin bet How 
to lick him unte’l thar ain’t nary piece of hide onto 
him as big as the pa’m of yer hand; and I’d like to see 
ye help yerself! ” 

“ He-he-he,” came Uncle Littleberry’s snicker 
again, “ Say Fain, don’t ye ’low ye’d better ketch 
him fust, afore ye begins that thar job of lickin’? ” 

‘‘Yes d—n ye,” snarled Fain, “ I pintedly bleeve 
ye know whar he’s a’hidin’ right now! And ef ye do 
I’ll shore have the law of ye fur a’harborin’ a fugitive 
from jestice! That’s what I’ll do fur ye! ” 

“ Ye say ye will does ye? ” squealed Littleberry, 
“ well sail in ye old nigger driver ye! Fur I does know 
purty toluble d—d close to whar he is, and I’d see ye 

plumb to-well to the place perwided fur sech 

fellers as ye, afore I’d tell ye ary word! Ef ye wants 
the law I’ll jest try my durndest to give ye a bellyful 
of hit! ” And the little man actually seemed to 
increase in girth and stature, as his indignation waxed 
hotter. 

“ By the Lawd! ” shouted Fain then, “ I bleeve ye 
hev the little devil hid away from his lawful owner in 
your house right now! And I ’low to go straight down 
thar and git him! ” 

For an instant Uncle Littleberry was dismayed that 
in his anger he had betrayed Jerry’s whereabouts to 
his enemy. Then the thought of the surprise awaiting 
Fain, in case that gentleman tried to enter Aunt 



308 


A Drama of the Hills 


Mealie’s domain against the will of that lady, caused 
a grin to spread over his features. As he afterwards 
remarked: 

“ Hit plumb tickled the ribs of my soul! ” and he 
made no effort to prevent Fain’s visit to his humble 
domicile. 

Jerry’s old taskmaster started for Aunt Mealie’s 
castle at once exuding indignation and profanity at 
every pore, and Uncle Littleberry and a score or more 
who had heard the controversy followed to witness the 
encounter. Fain thus under the eyes of those who 
had heard his threats, bustled up to the door of Uncle 
Littleberry’s cottage, and shouted: “ Hello! ” 

Now Jerry Boon had seen the approach of his tor¬ 
mentor, with an irresistible force, and he hastened 
into the kitchen, where Aunt Mealie was busy at her 
household tasks, and said: 

“ Mis’ Smallwood, hyar’s cornin’ old Fain atter 
me, and a whole passle of fellers with him, I reckin 
I better skin out. I kin git into the alley, and slip off 
and they’ll never git to see me.” 

But Aunt Mealie would not listen to the plan. 
“ Hyar ye ar, and hyar ye’ll stay, Jerry. And ef that 
thar old fool Fain tries to git into my house atter ye, 
I ’low he’ll git to know better, afore he tries hit agin! 
Cu’rus ef every old idjit kin come a’buttin’ into a 
body’s house, whether they is wanted or no! ” 

So when Fain sounded his alarum before the castle 
gate, and followed it up with a peremptory rat-tat-too 
upon the panels, he was taken by surprise to have the 


In Which Mr. Fam Takes a Bath 309 


door swung open so suddenly as to cause him to pitch 
forward with considerable force. Indeed he would 
have fallen into the room had it not been that the 
ample form of the lady of the house filled the door 
from side to side. 

“ Good land of the livin’! ” exclaimed Aunt Mealie, 
“ were that the way ye were raised to come into a 
woman’s house! ” And with the word her immense 
hand shot forward against Fain’s chest with such 
force as to cause him to stagger backwards. At this 
juncture Uncle Littleberry, like a faithful consort 
came to his partner’s aid, and deftly thrusting out his 
foot tripped Fain’s feet from under him, and that 
worthy man at once sat down upon the stone door step 
with most impressive force, and to the intense enjoy¬ 
ment of the spectators. The yells of laughter quickly 
brought the angry man to his feet with curses on his 
lips and blood in his eye! 

“ So that’s yer game is hit! Ye not only keeps me 
from a’gitin’ my boun’ boy, but ye commits ’sault and 
battery besides! Now then woman, stand outten the 
way for I’m a’comin’ in! ” 

“ Say Honey,” said Aunt Mealie in dulcet tones, 
to the diminutive lord of her ample bosom: “jest 
stand to one side like, won’t ye! I ’low to give the 
critter sech a shove this time as’ll send him plum 
across inter the hog waller yander! Now then, ye old 
fool come on I’ll salt yer battery fur ye! ” 

And it is a matter of common report in Lafleet 
County to this day, that when the infuriated Fain 


310 


A Drama of the Hills 


made his second dash at the door, and even so far lost 
his temper as to strike the old lady, two great fists 
shot forward with the thrusting power of three hun¬ 
dred pounds of indignant womanhood behind them, 
and caught the unprepared Fain full in the “ solar 
plexus! ” They hit so hard that the old fellow was 
sent spinning across the yard like a new sort of top 
until he tripped on a protruding root and actually 
pitched sprawling into the filthy “ waller ” where the 
hogs of the neighborhood were accustomed to take 
their daily siestas! 

Then in a voice as calm as a summer’s breeze Aunt 
Mealie said: “ Littleberry, Honey, run right quick 
and git me a pan of chips frum the wood pile yander, 
so’s I kin make me up a hot fire fur giftin' supper. 
Fooled away so much time with that thar critter, I 
got to be in a hurry! ” And as Uncle Littleberry went 
to do her bidding, she called to Fain, still standing in 
the center of a jeering and laughing crowd: “ Say, 
you Ike Fain, next time ye wants to take a swim in our 
hog waller, come right along. Allers likes to be 
’ commodatin’ like, to a neighbor! ” 

And the crowd laughing and shouting hastened up 
town to spread the news of this rare encounter. 
Meanwhile Fain sneaked through the alleys to reach 
his horse. Like the paths mentioned in scripture he 
“ Dropped fatness ” as he walked, and his remarks 
were of a lurid character that forbids recording them. 
Thus he climbed into his saddle and hastened away, 
lest a worse thing befall him. 


CHAPTER XXXII 

Mary and the Sheriff Start for Home 

The sun was nearing the Western Mountains that 
afternoon, when Mary and her father at length came 
in sight of the little cabin set in the depression on the 
steep hillside. “ There it is Daddy/’ cried Mary as the 
carriage slowly climbed around a turn of the road, 
“ off there just to the right of that big pine. That’s 
the little house that Norman built with his own hands. 
Oh Daddy it don’t seem possible that any one could 
be happier than I have been in that rough log cabin. 
The only shadow was the nightmare of Norman’s 
danger. That would come over me sometimes, but I 
had begun to forget it, and was happy as a girl could 
be, and then all at once the whole awful horror broke 
over us again! ” 

“Yes dearie,” said her father, as his arm tightened 
around her waist, “ but don’t go to think of hit no 
more. Only to thank the dear Lord hit’s all over with 
at last.” 

“Yes indeed, and only the good God Himself knows 
how I do thank him. There Daddy, that little cabin 
on the knoll back there, is Uncle Billy’s. I do wonder 
if the poor old fellow has had any sleep since I left 
him. One thing I feel sure of, his prisoner has not 
escaped! ” 


312 


A Drama of the Hills 


The carriage halted in front of the little cabin door 
which Mary had left in such wonderfully different 
circumstances only the previous night. Without 
stopping to enter then, the pair hastened up the path 
along which Mary had driven Branson with the 
noose around his neck. Uncle Billy’s door was closed, 
and he did not respond at once to their knocking; 
but, as when Mary had appeared with her prisoner, a 
fearful chorus of howls and barks and yelps, broke out 
within. And the clamor instantly called forth a shrill 
command from the proprietor. 

“ Hush yer yawp, ye durned purps! Cain’t a feller 
try to git a wink of sleep, but the whole ’tarnal bunch 
of ye has to turn loose a’howlin’ to once! ” 

Thus assured that the old man was alive and on 
guard, Mary hesitated no longer, but pushed the door 
open and stepped inside with the sheriff at her 
heels. 

“ Good God! ef hit ain’t Mis’ Bennett! ” shouted 
Uncle Billy, “ Say did ye fly to Knoxv’lle and back, 
or did the black hoss throw ye, and ye walked back 
afore ye was half way! ” 

“ Neither one or the other, Uncle Billy. I rode that 
black horse to Knoxville before daylight this morning; 
met my father in the depot there just as I was about 
telegraphing him to come; got a carriage and drove 
back, and here we are! By the way Uncle Billy, 
this is my father, Harry Morton, sheriff of Lafleet 
County, Missouri.” 

“ Well Mr. Sheriff,” said the old fellow, as he shook 


Mary and the Sheriff Start for Home 313 

Morton’s hand, “ ef ye ketches them like yer darter 
kin, I ’low to stay away frum Missoury next time I 
wants to do any divilment! Ride! well, sir’ee I 
pintedly bleeve the gyrl is old John Morgan come to 
life agin, and dressed up in petticoats! Rid that black 
devil of a hoss she did, like she were a’settin’ into a 
rockin’ cheer! ” 

By this time the eyes of the newcomers had grown 
accustomed to the dimly lighted interior, and they 
at once understood that Branson had not escaped, 
and the reason therefor. For there, standing bolt 
upright in a corner, with the handcuffs still on his 
wrists, was the prisoner, and exceedingly grim and 
brutal did he look. 

His feet were still wrapped with two or three turns 
of Mary’s clothes line. The noose which his own 
hands had woven at her direction, was still around 
his neck. And the rope extended upward over one of 
the ceiling joists, and thence down to Uncle Billy’s 
wrist around which it was tied. 

“Well my good sir! ” exclaimed the sheriff, “ ye 
evident did not mean the feller should git away from 
ye! ” 

“ Git away! Well I sh’d say not! that thar’s the 
way John Morgan kep’ a big federal feller he hed 
ketched, frum gittin’ away frum him onst. Ye see I 
let this critter sleep endurin’ of all night, and some of 
the mornin’, but atter I give him his dinner I tied him 
up that a’way, and sence then I hev hed right smart of 
a nap! ” 


314 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Well,” said Morton, “ spose’ ye takes off his halter 
now for a bit. I want to talk with him.” 

So the prisoner still morose and dumb was released 
from the noose and seated in a chair. “ Yes, Mary,” 
said the sheriff then, “ this is Jake Branson all right. 
I can swear to that, fur I arrested him once on a 
charge of hoss stealin’. Howsoever he come clar 
of that on trial, so I won’t throw hit up to him now. 
Now Jake, I hev wired fur extradition papers fur ye. 
They’ll be here in a day or two at longest, and ye’ve 
got to go back and face the music. Ye know well 
enough atter what ye did, and tried to do last night, 
that if ye were a free man I’d hunt ye down and kill 
ye like ye were a mad wolf. But now ye are a prisoner 
and in my charge, and I am swore to take keer of ye 
fur that. 

“ I have jest this to say, Jake: Ef ye will go with 
me afore a jestice of the peace, and tell all of what ye 
told Mary a part last night; and swear to hit, and 
sign hit. And then go right along with me to Lafleet 
County, without me a’havin’ to wait fur the papers, 
why I’ll swear to stand by ye, and see to hit that none 
of them wild kinfolks of yourn don’t lynch ye. And 
that ye hev a fair trial afore an unprejudiced jury. 

“ Ye unnerstan’, ye are bound to go anyway. Only 
ef ye’ll save me the trouble of waitin’, why I’ll save 
ye what trouble I kin. Now ye study over hit te’l 
mornin and then let me know what’ll ye do.” 

“ Uncle Billy,” said Mary, “ I’m going up to the 
house, and there’s a good dinner there waiting, and 


Mary and the Sheriff Start for Home 315 


only needin to be warmed up, and you must come and 
take your share.” 

“ Powerful ’bleedged, Mis’ Bennett, but what’s to 
do with our pretty bird hyar? Don’t want him a’flyin’ 
off the perch jest yit awhile, does ye? ” 

So it was finally arranged that the prisoner should 
be taken along, and kept well secured in the main 
room of Mary’s cabin, where the two men would take 
turns in keeping guard over him during the night. 
Thus it was that the meal prepared with so much care 
for Norman Manning, was not served until twenty- 
four hours later; and that at the table sat Mary’s 
father and old Billy Wallis, while Norman’s own 
share was given to the man upon whose account he 
had been a fugitive on the face of the earth for more 
than a year. 

The next morning Branson sulkily announced his 
assent to the sheriff’s proposition of the previous 
night. Early in the day the carriage was again in 
waiting, and the return to Missouri was actually 
commenced. Poor old Uncle Billy was moved, 
even to tears, when the time came to say good 
bye. 

“ I ain’t nothin’ but a tough old Confederit fighter,” 
he said, “ and thar ain’t ary other human hed a kind 
word fur me fur better’n twenty year, unte’l ye come, 
Mis’ Bennett. But thar, Yon’s yer place, and yer 
man’s a’waitin’ fur ye, and God A’mighty knows I 
wish ye joy! ” And then Mary threw her arms around 
his neck, and laid her soft cheek against his, so scarred 


316 A Drama of the Hills 

and furrowed, and kissed him as if she had been his 
own daughter. 

“ There you good old darling,” she cried, with her 
eyes like gray pools of tears, “ I’ll never forget how 
you helped me in the greatest danger that ever beset 
a poor girl. And I’ll pray God to bless you for it 
every day. Yes, and Norman and I will come all the 
way from Missouri to see you, too, sometime.” And 
with another pressure of her cheek to his, Mary was 
in the carriage and crying softly to herself. 

“ Uncle Billy,” said Morton, his own voice some¬ 
what tense with emotion. “ I want to shake your 
hand again. I’ll never forgit neither how ye stood by 
my little gyrl, when thar warn’t nobody elst to help 
her.” And as the sheriff sprang into the carriage 
Uncle Billy discovered a little roll of bills in his 
withered palm. 

“ Good Lordy! Lordy! ” he shouted, “ Hold on 
thar! ” But the carriage rolled on down the hill, and 
left the old fellow dazedly counting over the money 
in his hand. 

“ A hunderd dollars! ” he laughed, “ A hunderd 
dollars! Durned ef I ever hed as much money to one 
time in all my life, not even in Confedrit scrip! 
Reckin now I’ll move me down to the Mills and live 
like I was half white and free borned once more! ” 

Arrived at Brock’s Mills the sheriff lost no time in 
taking his prisoner before a justice of the peace, and 
by hard work, and constantly reminding him that he 
should use Mary’s testimony, in cas§ h$ failed to live 


Mary and the Sheriff Start for Home 317 


up to his agreement, got the whole damning story 
from the unwilling Branson, and had it in black and 
white. Then the prisoner signed and swore to the 
deposition, and the justice attested the oath. This 
done, and the priceless document safely bestowed in 
the sheriff's inside pocket, they entered the carriage 
once more, turned their faces toward the setting sun 
and dear old Missouri at last. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 
Colonel Barton Carries the News 

After the mob of Waltons had disbanded, following 
the Colonel's speech and the reading of Morton's 
telegram, Colonel Barton hastened to Marshfield, 
the home of the judge of the circuit court, and laid 
before that official all the new evidence which he had 
accumulated, and as a climax the telegram from 
Morton. With these proofs he had no difficulty in 
obtaining an order admitting Manning to bail in the 
sum of ten thousand dollars. This bond was quickly 
signed by a group of well to do members of the Wal¬ 
tons, as suggested by themselves. 

These preliminaries out of the way, the Colonel 
proceeded to the local livery stable, and hired the 
fastest team of horses, and the best carriage in the 
establishment, and then with such joy as a man rarely 
experiences in this life, drove at full speed to John 
Hampton's. 

He tied his team at the rear of the house, and stole 
quietly to the back door and with a grin, knocked 
timidly. Good old Aunt Mandy heard the light 
tapping on her kitchen door, and remarked to her 
husband: “ That thar must be little Sallie Winters 
a’knockin'. Her Maw told me a'yisterdy that she 


Colonel Barton Carries the News 


319 


’lowed to send over and git my Star of Beth’lem quilt 
pattern. Come right in honey, come right in.” 

Then the door swung open, and there stood Colonel 
Barton laughing till the tears stood in his eyes! 

“ Why laws a mussy! Colonel Barton! ” cried 
Aunt Mandy. 

“ That’s all right Mrs. Hampton,” chuckled the 
veteran, “ I ain’t been called ‘ Honey ’ afore in forty 
year! ” At which Aunt Mandy blushed like a school 
girl, and John Hampton’s hearty laugh joined with 
his visitor’s till the rafters rang again. 

“ Now then Colonel,” said Hampton at last, 
“ what ye out hyar fur? Slippin’ aroun’ a’gittin’ my 
old woman to callin’ of ye ‘ Honey ’! I know well 
enough that ain’t all ye come fur! ” 

“ First thing then John, get to that hiding hole of 
yourn and bring Manning here right quick. I’m jest 
compelled to see him right away! ” 

“ Good land Colonel, ye don’t go to tell me that 
thar’s any new trouble fur that pore boy! ” cried 
Aunt Mandy. 

“ Well it’s new all right,” answered Barton, “ but 
bring him on John; might’s well have it over with.” 

So Norman was brought into the room, and like 
Uncle John and Aunt Mandy the poor fellow was in 
fear and trembling, and bracing himself to meet some 
new calamity. 

“ Colonel Barton,” he cried, “ tell me first is it bad 
news from Mary that you bring? ” 

“ Not a bit of it Norman. Mary’s all right, but 


320 


A Drama of the Hills 


just read that.” And the Colonel put a document 
into Manning’s hand. Norman read it nearly through 
before he grasped its significance. Then he leaped to 
his feet and shouted: 

“ Why Uncle John, Aunt Mandy, this is an order of 
court admitting me to bail pending a new trial! Oh 
thank God! thank God! ” 

“ Amen! ” shouted Uncle John, and Aunt Mandy 
gave one clap of her hands and at once went into an 
ecstasy, “ shouting happy,” as if she were in a regula¬ 
tion Ozark camp meeting! 

“ Yes,” said the Colonel, “ that’s the order, and the 
bond is made and accepted. And I’ll bet ye a hundred 
to nothing ye can’t guess in a week who the bondsmen 
are! ” 

And after Norman had vainly guessed several 
names, and after Uncle John had protested, almost 
angrily, that he should have had a chance to put his 
name on the bond for one, the Colonel said: 

“ Wasn’t no chance for any one John. The Waltons 
fairly fit for the chanst to sign it, and wouldn’t hear 
to no name being on it except that of a Walton! ” 

“ The Waltons! ” chorused all three of his auditors, 
“ The Waltons! ” “ Why Colonel are ye gone stark 

wild, plumb crazy! ” said Hampton. 

And then the Colonel told in detail all the wonder¬ 
ful story. The imprisonment of Ed Walton, as Man¬ 
ning. His own despair, until Uncle Littleberry 
brought him the astounding news of the trick which 
Jerry Boon and his grandmother had worked upon the 


Colonel Barton Carries the News 


321 


man hunters. The receipt of the still more astounding 
news in the sheriff’s telegram. The capture of Bran¬ 
son by Mary “ Single handed,” as the message stated. 
The gathering of the mob, and the instant revulsion 
of feeling and sentiment of the crowd, to an active 
partizanship in Manning’s favor. Followed by the 
proposition by one of themselves, that none but 
Waltons should sign the bond. 

All these marvels the Colonel related in the very 
highest style of his art as a teller of wonders, and his 
listeners heard him almost without drawing a breath. 

“ Well now, John Hampton,” cried Aunt Mandy, 
“ didn’t I tell ye the day of merracles had done come 
agin! Don’t nobody go to tell me that all these 
things jest happened like! ” 

“ Hit is the Lord’s doin’s and marvellous in our 
eyes!” reverently answered John Hampton. And 
even the Colonel, who had paid scant attention to 
such themes during his stormy life, added almost in 
awe: 

“ Well Mrs. Hampton, if these things don’t rank as 
miracles I acknowledge I would not know what to 
call them.” 

Then after Aunt Mandy had again demonstrated 
the skill in cookery of an old fashioned Ozark house 
wife, the happy quartette sat down to the bountiful 
table. The Colonel and Uncle John did full justice 
to the meal, but Manning ate so little as to draw on 
himself a mild rebuke from the good woman of the 
house. 


322 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ I’m just too happy to eat! Aunt Mandy, I’ll have 
to put off doing justice to your cooking till I can bring 
Mary out here with me. And I promise you it won’t 
be long.” 

Then the Colonel drove up to the door with his 
spanking bays, and Norman, with a motherly kiss from 
Aunt Mandy, and a tingling hand clasp from Uncle 
John, took his seat at the Colonel’s side and whirled 
away over the road that he had last traveled on foot, 
in imminent danger of his life, and with Mary Mor¬ 
ton supporting his failing footsteps! 

The Colonel found a telegram from Morton await¬ 
ing him. It read: 

“ We are due in Labrador at 7.30 tomorrow morn¬ 
ing. Tell Manning.” “ 1 Tell Manning ’ he says 
Norman. Here read it for yourself.” 

Norman read it and then he said: “ He doesn’t 
say that Mary is with him. Can it be possible that 
he had to leave her? ” 

“ Leave her! my Lord NO! What you reckin’ 
he went to Tennessee for anyway! No Sir’ee, you’ll 
get to kiss the prettiest and pluckiest little woman in 
all America before eight o’clock tomorrow morning. 
Durned if I don’t envy you plumb to the bone, I do! ” 

But in spite of the Colonel’s assurances Norman 
lay awake a large part of the night. When he did 
sleep his slumbers brought with them visions of 
terror, in which he saw his wife in a hundred perils, 
while, tied hand and foot, he was unable to go to her 
help. So it was with joy that he greeted the first 


Colonel Barton Carries the News 323 

gray hues of coming day. He hastened to rise and 
dress although he well knew that there were long 
hours yet to be endured before the train was due. 

When the time drew near and he and the Colonel 
finally reached the depot, they found a large part of 
the population of Labrador there before them. 

“ Looks like our folks were interested in your affairs 
Manning,” said Barton, “ most as many of ’em here 
as turned out to see the Waltons hang you the other 
day! ” 

Then far away among the hills they caught the 
whistle of the coming train, sounded for road cross¬ 
ings. Each succeeding blast drew nearer and nearer, 
until at last there came a long, exultant ringing note, 
in which the engineer, in full sympathy with the 
occasion, and well knowing who were among his 
passengers, saluted the gathered people. 

The train clanked and hissed to a standstill. 
Several passengers descended to the platform. But 
among them was not that form for which Manning 
searched with eyes that ached with the intensity of 
his gaze. For mindful of his duty to his prisoner, the 
sheriff had taken Branson through the rear door of 
the train, and Mary had closely followed. 

Then when Manning’s anxiety was almost unbear¬ 
able there spoke at his side, clear as a silver bell “ the 
voice ” again! That voice which he had first heard in 
the old jail. 

“ Norman! ” And he caught her to the heart that 
had ached for her all these weary days; and her dear 


324 


A Drama of the Hills 


arms were around his neck, her lips pressed to his. 
What cared they, what knew they, that hundreds of 
eyes were upon them! There in the midst of the 
noisy throng they were alone in the holy of holies of 
their love. They were together once more, and in the 
sweetness of that knowledge the glances of tens of 
thousands, or the comments of all the world, were less 
than the veriest dust of the balances of life. 

But here was the Colonel, and he would brook no 
further delay, and as Mary, her hands still tightly 
clasped in those of her husband, turned her face 
towards him, she found herself actually kissed by the 
old lawyer. 

“ Can’t beat me out of my fee no longer, Mary! ” 
he laughed, and the crowd laughed too, and there was 
cheering and hand shaking, and congratulations 
galore. Even those who had been the most bitter 
against Manning now made haste to join heartily in 
the general joy and happiness at his deliverance. 

And through all this joyous and laughing throng 
Jacob Branson was led with downcast head, and silent 
tongue, to the old jail. And Cell Number 2 had a 
tenant again. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

In which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 

The capture and imprisonment of Branson; his 
sworn confession of the murder of James Walton; 
and the fact that while thus proved innocent Manning 
was yet before the law, a condemned murderer, out on 
bail, led the judge to order the immediate summoning 
of a Grand Jury, and an extra session of the Lafleet 
County Circuit Court. “ To consider of the charge 
against one Jacob Branson, and if evidence be found 
sufficient to indict him for the crime of murder. And 
further to try for the second time Norman Manning, 
now under bond for the same crime.” 

During the two weeks elapsing before the date set 
for the convening of circuit court occurred another 
incident in the career of Jerry Boon, from which, 
during all of his subsequent life, he has dated every¬ 
thing in that life worth while. 

After Isaac Fain had taken his involuntary bath in 
Aunt Mealie’s “ hog waller,” he kept himself for some 
time strictly secluded at home; too much chagrined 
at the ludicrous figure which he had cut to feel equal 
to facing the people of Labrador again. But his 
naturally vindictive disposition, aided by numerous 
pulls at his brown jug, urged him to renew the search 
for his bound boy. That he might at least take some 


326 


A Drama of the Hills 


satisfaction to himself in paying the long arrears of 
“ licking ” he had charged up against the fugitive 
Jerry. 

So one morning he suddenly appeared in the door¬ 
way of Uncle Littleberry’s stable where he had just 
caught a glimpse of Jerry's entrance. Before the boy 
saw him, or realized his own danger his old tormentor 
had seized him by the nape of the neck, and was 
dragging him through the alley to the spot where he 
had left his team. 

“ Now ye little black devil, I’ve got ye this time, 
and I ’low to lick ye half the endurin’ night! I’ll teach 
ye to ups and run away frum me! I’ll larn ye to take 
up with them that’s agin me! ” 

At these dire threats Jerry raised a series of shrieks 
which instantly brought every person within two 
blocks to door or window to learn the cause of such an 
outcry. First of all these was Aunt Mealie, who at the 
moment, happened to be deep in her wash tub, 
“ Doing out ” the weekly washing. With her sleeves 
rolled well up upon her immense arms; her outer 
skirt pinned high enough to display a vast acreage of 
red flannel petticoat and a pair of sturdy ankles, 
she instantly abandoned her tub, and dashed bare 
headed out of her gate and in the direction of her 
husband’s shop. Considering her many handicaps 
as a foot racer her speed was really marvelous, and 
as she pounded along she screamed at the top of her 
voice: 

“ Littleberry! Littleberry! Littleberry! ” Mean- 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 327 

while Fain had not been idle, but had reached his 
wagon with his captive, and after tying the boy hand 
and foot with a halter strap had thrown him into the 
wagon with as little care as if he had been a trussed 
pig! Then snatching up the reins he plied whip and 
voice to such good purpose that he quickly had his 
horses on the dead run. The road was rough and 
stony; the wagon was without springs, and poor 
Jerry was bumped and jostled at a fearful rate. From 
the combined pain and anger, and the anticipation of 
the “ lickin’s ” still to come, Jerry was by this time 
in a terrible state, and he ceased not to raise his shrill 
notes, until the very hills echoed and re-echoed with 
the clamor. 

At last Uncle Littleberry, hammering away for 
dear life on an obstinate half sole, heard the sur¬ 
prising shrieking of his own name! 

“ Why Jehosaphat Jackson! Ef I didn’t know 
better I’d say that were Mealie a’squallin’ fur me! ” 
And waiting not he sprang from his cobbler’s bench 
and out of the door, and stood literally stricken dumb 
at the sight that greeted his eyes. Flying along the 
street was indeed Aunt Mealie, but not at all the 
woman whom he had always supposed his wife to be; 
here was not the slow moving, calm spoken person to 
whom he was accustomed, but a veritable Amazon, 
with hair streaming in the wind; eyes flashing fire; 
and scarlet petticoats fluttering; and coming at a 
pace that easily kept her in the lead of the score or 
more who followed in her train! 


328 


A Drama of the Hills 


“ Great Jeemes’s river! Mealie what’s the matter?” 
he squealed as he raced to meet her. 

“ Littleberry,” she screamed, “ That thar critter 
Fain, done captered our boy Jerry, and tuk him off to 
kill him! ” 

“ D—n his cussed soul,” squeaked the little man, 
unmindful now whether the preacher heard or not, 
“ Now don’t ye go to worritin’ Mealie honey, I’ll 
git Fain, ye betch yer life I’ll git him that quick hit’ll 
make that thar old cock eye of his’n mighty nigh 
come straight.” 

And as he spoke Uncle Littleberry dashed into his 
diminutive shop, and in a few seconds dashed out 
agin fully equipped for deadly warfare! Upon his 
head was his sacred bell-crowned hat; upon his 
shoulder was the superannuated musket of his Con¬ 
federate war days! Around his waist was the old 
“ U. S. A.” belt; and to complete his warlike array 
his leathern apron flapped noisily around his diminu¬ 
tive legs as he ran. 

Tied to the hitching rack in front of the court house 
stood a score or more saddle horses, left there by then- 
farmer owners who were transacting the various 
errands that had brought them to town. Uncle 
Littleberry hesitated not, but untying the first of 
these animals that he came to, led it alongside the 
fence, climbed to the topmost board and thence into 
the saddle. Then with a shrill yell and a shake of the 
reins he was off at a full run. 

By this time the excitement had spread far and 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 329 

wide, and a crowd was on the streets. The rumor 
quickly gained circulation that a mob was coming 
to lynch Branson, and this report reaching the ears of 
the sheriff he hastened to the Square, intending to 
summon a posse to defend the jail. Colonel Barton 
too had heard the rumor and joined the sheriff, 
anxious to do all in his power to protect the prisoner, 
and to prevent mob law. 

But the true state of affairs was quickly learned, 
and then the sheriff told the lawyer of his desire to 
take Jerry from Isaac Fain, and adopt him as his own 
son. Barton assured him that if the matter was taken 
before the Probate Court, and it was proved thatFain 
was abusing the boy, and failing in carrying out his 
contract made at the time he was indentured to him, 
the judge would certainly take him out of his power. 
And on this the sheriff empowered the Colonel to 
represent him in an attempt to free the boy. 

Meanwhile Uncle Littleberry was urging his aston¬ 
ished steed to such a burst of speed as the honest old 
plow horse had certainly never attained before in his 
life. Down the rough and stony road he flew. The 
rider’s feet lacked many inches of reaching the stir¬ 
rups on either side, and these empty articles swinging 
at every jump smote the old horse in the ribs, and 
added to his terror and his speed! 

The saddle was one of those huge constructions of 
wood and leather much used in the Ozarks at the time, 
with an immense horn upreared in front, and a broad 
cantle almost as high at the rear. Between these two 


330 


A Drama of the Hills 


elevations Uncle Littleberry occupied a small portion 
of the wide leather seat. His ridiculously short legs 
stuck out almost at right angles; his great hat had 
shaken down until it rested squarely on the end of his 
nose; and the old musket was held traversely before 
him like the balancing pole of a tight rope walker. 
At every stride of the horse the little man bounded to 
such perilous heights that, as a spectator said of it 
afterwards, “ He could see blue sky under him at 
every jump! ” 

But mindful only of the imperative need of haste if 
he was to overcome the handicap which the long start 
of the kidnapper had given him, Uncle Littleberry 
slacked not either speed nor effort. Either the direct 
interposition of providence, or some lingering rem¬ 
nants of skill learned in raids under his idolized “ Pap 
Price ” in the war times of old stood him in good stead 
and he not only kept from falling, but continued to 
urge his poor old mount to new efforts, and greater 
speed, and thus after nearly two miles racing he 
caught sight of Fain. The horses attached to the 
wagon were in even worse condition by this time, than 
the shoemaker’s steed, and it was but a matter of a 
few minutes until the pursuer was directly at the rear 
of Fain’s wagon. Then Uncle Littleberry raised his 
old musket to his shoulder and panted: 

“ Halt thar ye kidnappin’ old varmint, or I’ll let 
two ounces of lead plumb through your old carkiss!” 

Mr. Fain was not posted on the condition of the 
old gun, and Littleberry’s summons was sojfierce, 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 331 

and his demeanor so threatening that the fugitive 
yelled: 

“ Fer God’s sake quit a’pintin’ that gun at me ye 
little fool; durned thing mought go off! ” 

“ Go off! Well I sh’d say so! Ye kin bet yer im¬ 
mortal soul, ef ye have one which I’m a’doubtin’, 
hit’ll go off too! And it’ll do hit durned quick ef ye 
don’t obey orders when I gives ’em. Turn that thar 
team ’round! ” 

“ What fur? ” yelled Fain, “ I ain’t done nothin’, 
and ye ain’t got no ’thority to arrest nobody no way!” 

“ I ain’t eh! I’d hev ye to know that I’m a reg’ler 
appinted Deppity Sheriff of Lafleet County. Like¬ 
wise ye are a’kidnappin’ of a boy, and that thar’s a 
hangin’ matter. Now then round ye comes or I’ll 
pull the trigger; ruther do hit than not anyway! ” 
Cursing and swearing lustily Fain perforce obeyed 
and started back towards Labrador. Then apparently 
for the first time Uncle Littleberry noticed the uncom¬ 
fortable shape in which poor Jerry lay in the bottom of 
the wagon, and from his position at the rear he yelled: 
“ Halt! ” 

“ What ye want now, ye old fool? ” snarled Fain. 

“ Git offen that thar seat and untie that boy! ” 

“ Untie him! ” cried Fain, “ well I won’t! Durned 
little limb’d run off agin afore ye could bat yer eye! ” 
“ You untie him, tell’ee, and do hit purty toluble 
d—d quick, or old gun’ll go off of her own idee! ” 

And again Fain had to obey, and poor Jerry was 
able to stretch his benumbed limbs once more. So 


332 


A Drama of the Hills 


the little procession drove on to the Public Square. 
Fain on the driver’s seat; Jerry on a board laid across 
the wagon box behind him; and Uncle Littleberry, 
with all the dignity of a Roman conqueror returning 
in triumph from foreign wars, bringing up the rear; 
his musket ready for instant use in case Fain should 
prove contumacious. 

“ Halt! ” cried the “ Deppity Sheriff,” as they 
arrived in front of the jail. “ Pris’ner git outten that 
thar waggin! ” But now that others were near 
Fain’s courage and wrath rose and he replied: 

“ I’ve hed jest plumb enough of this hyar foolin’, 
ye ornery little sarpint! I ain’t no pris’ner, and I 
’low now that I’ll go home and take this hyar kid 
along fur to git the lickin’ I’ve got laid up fur him.” 

As Fain uttered this threat Jerry leaped from the 
wagon and fled like a deer to Uncle Littleberry’s shop 
and dashed through the door. And Aunt Mealie, 
being there on duty, promptly stepped in front of the 
opening and effectually blocked all pursuit! 

Then Littleberry Smallwood lost all control of his 
temper, and so far fell from grace as to pour out fierce 
and fluent vials of wrath and profanity upon Fain’s 
head. Moreover he threatened his captive with 
instant and bloody death unless he at once marched 
into the jail and surrendered. And the old bully was 
so frightened at the little man’s anger that he was 
about to comply with his orders. 

But at this point Colonel Barton interfered, and 
admonished the wrathful little shoemaker that there 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 333 

was a legal way by which to take Jerry from his 
tormentor, and that he would personally see to it that 
Fain did not again get his hands on the boy. 

“ Oh ho! so ye’re into hit too! ” sneered Fain, 
“ reg’ler conspiracy ’mongst ye all is hit! Now what 
ye a’goin to do about hit? ” 

“ Just this Ike,” answered the Colonel, calmly but 
with eyes that snapped fire as he spoke, “ Just this; 
Probate Court’s in session today, and I’m a’goin’ 
before it and see to it that ye loses the boy. And 
more’n that, I intend to see to it that ye get what’s 
a’comin’ to ye for the way you have abused the poor 
little feller.” 

“ Shucks, Colonel,” growled Fain, “ I did ’low ye 
hed more sense. That thar boy b’longs to me same’s 
my niggers used’er to afore ye d—d Yankees stolened 
’em! D—n ye fur hit say I! ” 

“ That’ll do Fain,” shouted the Colonel, lapsing as 
he always did when excited, into the vernacular of his 
youth; “ Another sech a word outten yer lyin’ haid 
and I’ll take the job of settlin’ with ye often the 
court’s hands, and lick the very taste outten ye 
myself! ” 

Whereat Fain, with the coward’s quick recognition 
of the danger signal in a brave man’s eye, uttered not 
a word. 

The Colonel lost no time, but within the hour 
appeared before the Judge of Probate, and called his 
attention to the cruelties practiced on a ward of that 
court, to wit Jerry Boon. And so earnestly did the old 


334 


A Drama of the Hills 


lawyer urge the need of quick action, that a place was 
made upon the not overcrowded docket, and the case 
set for trial that very afternoon. 

All the population of Labrador that the court room 
was capable of accommodating were packed therein 
two hours before the time set for the trial to open. 
Jerry was there, tightly wedged in between Aunt 
Mealie and Mary Manning. Big Tom Leathers 
loomed above all heads in the rear of the room; 
Uncle Littleberry by virtue of his “ Deppityship,” 
and his prominence in the case occupied a point of 
vantage on the edge of the platform, near the judge. 
Manning was there, and John Hampton, and all and 
sundry from town and country, eager to see and hear, 
and hoping for the freeing of the boy, for most of them 
had heard in a general way of the little fellow’s hard 
life with Ike Fain. 

The judge wasted no time, but at once asked: 
“ Is Isaac Fain present? ” 

“ Yas jedge, hyar I be! And purty toluble d—d 
anxious fur jestice I be! ” 

“ Mr. Fain,” sternly then said the Judge, “ another 
such an answer from you and I will fine you for 
contempt of court. I am here to see that you get 
justice, and I intend that you shall! ” At which 
assurance it was remarked that Mr. Fain’s counte¬ 
nance did not display any signs of great pleas¬ 
ure! 

“ Mr. Clerk swear Isaac Fain.” This order having 
been obeyed the Judge said: “ Mr. Fain, are you the 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 335 

person to whom a boy named Jerry Boon was bound 
by order of this court? ” 

“ Yas I be Jedge, and ye know hit, fur ye bound him 
to me yerself.” 

“ Mr. Fain how long have you had that boy in your 
charge? ” 

“ Well I cain’t tell jest edzactly; somethin’ better’n 
a year Ireckin.” 

“ Did you send him to school? ” 

“No Jedge I never. I didn’t see no use of givin’ 
him no lamin’; ’sides I hed too much work fur him 
to do to hev him foolin’ no time at school.” 

“ Did you clothe and feed him properly? ” 

“Well Jedge I should say I did! Why I done 
boughten him a pair of blue cotton overalls, cost two 
bits! And my old woman, she give him one of my old 
tow shirts, and a pair of old shoes not nigh worned out 
yit, that I hed.” 

“ How was he fed? ” 

“ Why best in the world Jedge. Of course ye 
wouldn’t expec’ us to hev him at the same table with 
me and my folks, but when we was done he 
got all the leavin’s Jedge, yas sir he got a power 
of leavin’s! ” 

“ Did you train him to live an honest life? ” 

“ Ah Jedge, now ye are a’gittin’ to my strongest 
pint; ye kin jest bet I trained him! ” 

“ How did you train him, sir? ” 

“ Jedge I done my duty by him. I licked him faith¬ 
ful! I don’t reckin thar were ary day I didn’t lick him 


336 A Drama of the Hills 

as many as twiste! Yes, Jedge I licked him faith¬ 
ful! ” 

“ Sir! ” thundered the old judge at this, “ there’s a 
dozen witnesses here ready to swear to your inhuman 
treatment of this child. But I shall not call one of 
them! From your own mouth you are convicted of 
violating every one of the agreements you entered 
into with this court, at the time the boy was placed in 
your hands. 

“ Mr. Clerk, enter an order on the record annulling 
the papers binding Jerry Boon to Isaac Fain.” 

“ What Jedge! Ye ’low to take my property 
frum me! Whose to pay me the money I’m out 
account of the d—d little rascal! ” 

“ Silence Sir! ” thundered the Judge, “ you inter¬ 
rupted me before I had finished my order. I propose 
to make such an example of you sir, that it shall be 
a warning to the next of your kind in this county who 
may happen to get a helpless orphan into his hands. 
He shall at least know what to expect if he abuses a 
ward of this court as you have done. You are 
fined two hundred and fifty dollars for cruelty to 
a child! ” 

“ What fined! Me fined! Bekase I licked my own 
prop’ty! Well ye air a Jedge now ain’t ye! ” 

And then the judge’s voice added: “ In addition 
to the fine of two hundred and fifty dollars I fine you 
the further amount of fifty dollars for the most fla¬ 
grant contempt of court. And you stand committed 
to jail until both these fines, and all costs in this case 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 337 

are fully paid! Mr. Sheriff take your prisoner in 
custody! ” 

Honest Harry Morton afterwards said that the only 
arrest that he ever made with unmixed pleasure, was 
when he laid his hand on Ike Fain's shoulder and 
escorted that gentleman to jail. 

As the room quieted down after Fain's departure 
Colonel Barton asked leave to address the court. 
Then on behalf of Sheriff Morton a request was made 
that he be allowed to adopt the boy Jerry Boon as his 
own son. Briefly the Colonel told of the important 
part the boy had played in foiling the mob that had 
intended to lynch Manning, immediately after his 
trial. Of the lad's shrewdness and bravery under 
difficult circumstances, and his great service at 
different times in uncovering the plot against the life 
of an innocent man, whose only claim on him was that 
he had saved him from one of many cruel beatings 
at Fain's hand. 

The story was well told. Few there had before 
known it in all its details, and many an eye was dim 
with tears as the old lawyer closed by saying: “ Be¬ 
cause of this boy’s loyalty under great peril to himself, 
an innocent man's life has been saved; a villain 
thwarted, and Lafleet County saved from a fearful 
miscarriage of justice, and an indelible disgrace. 

“ Realizing all this, and that the man whose life was 
thus saved is now a member of his own family, Harry 
Morton asks the court for the privilege of giving this 
little lad the care and love that have so far in life been 


338 


A Drama of the Hills 


largely denied to him. And he pledges himself that 
all advantages of training and education his means 
command, shall be as freely the boy’s as if he were 
indeed his own flesh and blood.” 

“ That’s right Your Honor,” said the sheriff, 
entering the door at that moment, “ That’s right, I’ll 
do my best for him if you will give me the chanst.” 

“ Jerry Boon,” said the judge, “ what do you say? 
Would you like to be the sheriff’s boy? ” 

“ Like hit,” answered Jerry as unabashed as if such 
experiences as this were matters of daily occurrence 
with him, “ Like hit best in the world, fur the sheriff’s 
white plumb to the bone! But jedge thar’s a pint or 
two I’d like powerful well to know about furst.” 

“ What points are those Jerry,” asked the judge 
smiling. 

“ One thing I don’t want to hev to change my 
name. Ye see old Dan’l Boon were my Daddy’s gret 
grandfather, and he were a plumb good fighter, he 
were. And next I don’t want ter be ’bleedged to cut 
clar loose from my Granny. Pore old critter, I’m all 
the kin she has left in the world, and she never hit me 
of a lick, endurin’ of all my life.” 

“ Judge,” said the sheriff then, and there was a 
tremor in his voice, “ the boy is plumb right. He’s 
got a clar title to the good old name of Boon, and I’m 
right proud he wants to stan’ by his old Granny. 
Shore Jerry, ye kin keep ’em both. Wouldn’t think 
half as much of ye as I do ef ye went back on ’em! ” 

So it came to pass that Jerry’s hard times were 


In Which Jerry Boon Meets with Adventures 839 

gone forever. It would take another book to tell of his 
life from that day to this. Enough to say that with 
his keen intellect trained in the wisdom of the schools; 
a clear head, and a clean heart he has served the people 
among whom his life has been passed, and few have 
done better or more unselfish service. 


CHAPTER XXXV 
In which the Cubtain Falls 

At length the day dawned that was to see Norman 
Manning once more arraigned before the Lafleet 
Circuit Court to be tried for his life. But how differ¬ 
ent his condition compared to that other day when he 
stood in the same place. 

Then nine tenths of the people present or absent, 
nine tenths of the population of half a dozen counties, 
believed him guilty of one of the foulest murders in the 
history of that region. Now one and all knew that the 
present trial was a mere form, to put on record the 
fact of his innocence, and to wipe from those records 
even the imputation of guilt on his part. Then, his 
active friends did not number a dozen all told; now 
their number could only be ascertained by taking a 
census of the whole region. Then, any mention of 
bail for him would have met a stern rebuke from the 
judge; now, a thousand men would strive for the 
privilege of going upon his bond, if permitted to do 
so. Then, a throng irresistible in its deadly strength 
of purpose planned with frantic energy to have his 
life either with or without form of law; now, these 
same men were eager to prove their friendship for him, 
and every name upon his bond was that of a leader in 


In Which the Curtain Falls 


341 


that grim band gathered at the old jail to lynch him, 
that dark May night. 

With all due formality the forms of law were com¬ 
plied with. A jury dispensed with, on Colonel Bar¬ 
ton’s motion, and the case called before the judge. 

Then in ringing sentences Colonel Barton again 
pled the cause of Norman Manning. Not hopelessly 
and desperately, as he pled before, but with intense 
feeling he uttered a veritable paean of triumph of 
innocence over guilt. Then followed a whirlwind of 
denunciation of Branson. A man who to the shocking 
murder of his own near relative, had deliberately and 
with long continued malice, striven to add to that foul 
crime, the fouler one of visiting the penalty of his own 
sin upon the head of an innocent man. Adding murder 
to murder. 

He read the signed and sworn confession of Bran¬ 
son. He offered to call for the testimony of several 
new witnesses then in the court room, but whose 
testimony was but trivial and indirect, when com¬ 
pared with the damning weight of the confession which 
he had just read. And then he closed by summing up 
the case for his client, in such a peroration of fiery 
eloquence, tender pathos, and earnest pleading as 
still lingers in the traditions of old Lafleet County. 

As Colonel Barton took his seat, the judge began to 
speak, and at the first intonation of his voice every 
other sound in the crowded room instantly ceased. 

“ It is the sworn duty of a judge upon this bench 
to enforce to the best of his ability and understand- 


342 


A Drama of the Hills 


ing, the laws of the State of Missouri. In doing so he 
must not allow his feelings as a man to swerve by so 
much as a hair’s breadth, his decisions as a judge. 

“ When this defendant last stood before me he had 
been convicted by a jury of the good citizens of Lafleet 
County, of a wicked and revolting murder. He indeed 
made a manly and eloquent assertion of his innocence. 
An assertion that, had the court been a member of 
the audience instead of the occupant of the bench, 
would have gone far towards convincing him of the 
prisoner’s innocence. 

“ However, under the law and evidence there was 
nothing left the court but the terrible duty of sentenc¬ 
ing him to death. Today, Norman Manning, you 
come before me with the confession of the actual 
murderer. By the interposition of that which I can 
but humbly believe to be a Divine Providence, a fear¬ 
ful miscarriage of justice has been prevented. With a 
joy as deep as were my regrets on the former occasion, 
it now becomes my pleasant duty to declare Norman 
Manning Not Guilty of the murder of James Walton. 
I therefore direct the clerk of this court to enter that 
verdict upon the records of the court. And I direct 
the sheriff of Lafleet County to discharge the prisoner 
from custody.” 

Then indeed was there a rush from all sides to shake 
the hand of the free man, and to congratulate him 
upon his freedom. But before he clasped even the 
outstretched hand of the gallant old Colonel, he turned 
and gathered into his arms the brave little wife, to 


In Which the Curtain Falls 


343 


whom more than to any other earthly being he owed 
the life that now opened out so bright and fair before 
them. 

Then indeed followed congratulations and laughter. 
And eyes filled with tears of joy, that had shed those 
of sorrow on that other day. And Mary Manning, 
proudest, happiest, fairest wife in all the land, stood 
by her husband’s side, and wondered in her faithful 
heart whether Heaven itself could bring any sweeter 
joy than was then hers. The special Grand Jury 
summoned for this term of court had met and returned 
an indictment against Jacob Branson, for murder in 
the first degree. This indictment was returned to the 
court on the afternoon of the same day which saw 
Norman Manning finally cleared of the same charge. 
The court therefore ordered that the prisoner be 
brought before him at nine o’clock the next morning 
to plead to the indictment, and directed the sheriff to 
inform him that he would then be arraigned. 

Morton did as directed and broke the news of his 
approaching trial as gently as possible to Branson, 
offering to call to his aid any lawyer whom he might 
wish to see. But the murderer stolidly refused to ask 
for legal counsel, at that time. 

“ Time enough fer thet later on,” he mumbled, 
and thus Morton left him. The day of the trial 
dawned, and with it there poured into Labrador very 
much the same people who thronged to Manning’s 
first trial. The Waltons of every degree of con¬ 
sanguinity, from a radius of fifty miles, were there. 


344 


A Drama of the Hills 


There sat the mother of Branson, and his poor little 
furtive eyed wisp of a wife. A wife to whom all her 
years of uncomplaining servitude in his behalf had 
brought not one word of affection, not one gentle 
kindly act from the brute who had owned her body 
and soul. 

The court was again packed to suffocation. The 
judge was on the bench; the veniremen from whom a 
jury was to be selected, were present, the judge 
directed the sheriff to bring the prisoner into court. 

For this purpose Morton hastened to the jail, 
passed along the darkened corridor, and once more 
unlocked the door to Cell No. 2. 

“ Well, Jake/’ he said, “ judge orders me to bring 
ye along into court now. He don’t ’low to admit yer 
confession as evidence, but will give ye a reg’ler jury 
trial. And ye kin hev as good a lawyer as there is in 
Lafleet if ye want him.” 

But Branson answered not a word, and remained 
upright beneath the little window set high up in the 
cell wall. 

“ Wake up man! What’s the matter addin’ of ye?” 
cried the sheriff as he stepped across the room and 
laid his hand on the prisoner’s arm. Then as his eyes 
became used to the semi-darkness of the place he 
uttered a loud cry and dashed away the chair behind 
which Branson was standing, and knew the reason of 
the prisoner’s silence: Jacob Branson was dead! 

He had torn the sheet taken from his cot, into 
strips, and with marvelous care and ingenuity had 


In Which the Curtain Falls 


845 


braided them into a rope capable of sustaining even 
his giangtic form. This he had fashioned into such a 
noose as Mary Morton had taught him to make in the 
cabin on the Tennessee Mountains, and fixed it around 
his neck. One end of the rope he tied to the grating of 
the window, then mounted upon the chair, drew the 
noose tight, and stepped off to strangle slowly to 
death. 

Morton instantly cut the rope, laid the great sense¬ 
less lump of clay on the floor, and dashed away to 
summon a doctor. He returned in a few minutes, with 
the physician, but all the doctors on earth could not 
have helped Jacob Branson. 

“ Been dead at least an hour,” said the doctor. 

“ Must have did hit right after he had his break¬ 
fast,” said Morton. “ He seemed peeart enough then. 
But I flow the notion took him all of a’suddent like, 
and he did it jest in a minute.” 

The crowd in the court room were astonished at the 
long delay of the sheriff in returning with his prisoner. 
They were still more astonished when he finally 
appeared alone, and hastened to hold a whispered and 
excited consultation with the judge. Then at the 
court’s order the sheriff called for silence, and the 
judge solemnly rose and said: 

“ I have to announce that Jacob Branson has passed 
beyond the jurisdiction of this court. The sheriff 
informs me that he found the prisoner hanging by the 
neck in his cell, dead. Thus by his own hand, he, a 
self convicted murderer, has become also his own exe- 


346 


A Drama of the Hills 


cutioner! Mr. Clerk, enter the facts upon the record 
as an explanation of the termination of this case with¬ 
out trial. This court now stands adjourned until its 
next regular term, unless public interests compel it to 
be called in extra term before that time.” 

For hours the streets of Labrador were filled with 
an excited throng discussing the tragic ending of the 
murderer of James Walton. But after the body of the 
suicide had been placed in a coffin, and delivered to his 
wife and mother for burial, the common verdict was 
about that voiced by Uncle Littleberry Smallwood, 
when he said: 

“ Well I don’t bleeve Jake Branson never did a 
better thing endurin’ of his whole life, than when he 
ups and hangs hisself! Saved Lafleet the expense of 
trying him; saved Harry Morton the dirty job of 
hangin’ him; saved them fiery Walton kin of his’n 
the trouble they’d hev got into ef they had a’tried to 
lynch him, as they shore would’a done. Takin’ hit 
all aroun’ he were the savin’est feller ever I heern tell 
on, he were! ” 


Ten years passed since the glad day when Norman 
Manning walked out of the old court house a free 
man. For nine of those years the sign upon Colonel 
Barton’s old office had read: “ Barton & Manning, 
Attorneys at Law.” Far and near the junior partner 
was called. Nearly always upon the defense in crimi¬ 
nal cases. Always he made his own careful examina¬ 
tions, and if convinced of the prisoner’s innocence he 



In Which the Curtain Falls 


347 


would enter into the trial with an energy and zeal that 
repeatedly snatched victory from the very jaws of 
defeat. But if persuaded that the man who wanted 
his services was guilty, no fee, no urging, no political 
or social influence, was strong enough to enlist him in 
the defense. The Colonel, his jetty locks now well 
streaked with gray, frequently said: 

“ Manning’s a durned fool! That is if you measure 
him by the standard of some lawyers. Could have 
been as rich now as Rockefeller, defendin’ rich rascals, 
and wouldn’t do it! All the same I love him for being 
just that sort of a fool. And I’m a’telling you there 
are others think the same as I do, too.” 

The ten years had passed, and one morning the 
sign on the old door was changed again. This time it 
read: “ Barton, Manning & Boon, Attorneys At 
Law.” For Jerry had passed his final examinations 
with flying colors, and attained the prize in life that he 
had set before himself ten long years before, a partner¬ 
ship in the law with Colonel Barton and Norman 
Manning. 

“ He-he-he,” laughed old Uncle Littleberry Small¬ 
wood, when he first saw the three names in conjunc¬ 
tion: “ Old Colonel and Manning ’ud better watch 
out, or the little feller’ll be the biggest man of the 
bunch yit! Sharpest little devil ever lived! He is! 
and Me and Mealie we done started hit all, we did so, 
when we got him away frum that thar ornery old Ike 
Fain.” 

And what of Mary all these years? Yonder she sits 


348 


A Drama of the Hills 


at the window of the home her husband gave her. 
“ The second home/’ she sometimes says, with a 
sparkle of her gray eyes, “ that Norman has given me.” 
At her side stands a manly little chap who rejoices in 
the honest name of Harry Morton Manning, while 
at the front gate, watching for the coming of her 
father, is the miniature copy of the Mary Morton 
whose acquaintance we first made in the corridor of 
the old jail. 

And Norman Manning coming up the walk with his 
little daughter on his shoulder, looks up to catch again 
the glow in the gray eyes that always light up at his 
coming, and hears again the “ voice ” which first 
reached his ears when he lay in a cell, charged with 
murder; the voice still dearest to him of all earthly 
sounds, and which shall only be dearer and dearer, as 
the twain whom God has joined together go on down 
life’s way to old age, hand in hand. 


THE END 














































































































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